12
DOUG HAD SHOWN UP —and the corners of his lips rose when he caught sight of her waiting in the restaurant’s bar—but his face didn’t brighten like it always did. He was also late.
Neither boded well for their weekly lunch.
Giving him her warmest smile, Carolyn slid off the stool and wove through the crowd in the foyer toward him. “I thought you’d stood me up.” She used the coy, teasing tone men seemed to like. “I was afraid I’d have to eat alone.”
“Sorry. I was stuck in a meeting.” The apology was perfunctory, and he did no more than glance at her before motioning toward the dining room. “Ready for lunch?”
“Sure.”
She took the lead, weaving through the other diners toward their usual table, and slid onto her chair. As she picked up her napkin, Doug signaled for the waiter.
He wasn’t wasting any time on small talk, trying to stretch out their lunch as long as possible.
Another bad omen.
“I can’t linger today.” He straightened his silverware. “It’s crazy at the station.”
“I can imagine.” But the undercurrent of tension in the air suggested there was more to his haste than work issues.
The waiter appeared, and after they gave him their orders she focused on Doug. “You seem more stressed today than last week. Fallout from the last-minute bombshell that caller dropped on Eve’s show Wednesday?”
“No. She handled the response masterfully on her blog and on Friday’s program.”
Yes, she had.
It was hard not to admire the woman, even if you wanted her programming slot.
“She’s a pro.”
“Yeah.” Doug brushed at a speck on the tablecloth. “And the sponsors are sticking. So we’re holding our own at present.”
“That’s positive news.” For Eve—and the station—anyway. “Any recent developments on the case?”
“Yes—but we’re keeping the latest under wraps. Eve doesn’t want it broadcast to the public.”
She called up her flirty smile. “I’m not the public.”
“No. You’re press.” He picked up his water and took a sip, avoiding eye contact.
O-kay.
Her phone call to him after Eve’s Wednesday program must have done more damage than she’d estimated.
This required finessing.
She touched his forearm and put on her worried face. “Doug . . . you know I’d never divulge a confidence. I’m not here as a newspaper reporter. We have a . . . friendlier . . . relationship than that.”
His gaze dropped to her fingers. Lingered. Then he swallowed and eased his hand away. “I thought we did too.”
Thought.
Past tense.
Fighting back a wave of panic, she retracted her fingers and smoothed out the napkin on her lap. Something was very wrong.
And avoiding the issue wasn’t going to fix it.
Since charm alone no longer appeared to be working, she might have to turn up the heat and resort to the plucking option—as soon as she convinced him she’d been on overload after a tough morning at work on Wednesday, and apologized for coming on too strong about her radio ambitions. Doug, of all people, would understand the difficulty of coping with stress.
She leaned toward him, making no attempt to hide her concern. “You’re not yourself today. What’s going on?”
Wadding up the napkin in his lap, he finally gave her his full attention. “I need to ask you a question.”
A tingle of unease slithered down her spine. “This sounds serious.”
“It is.”
“All right. I’ll do my best to answer.”
He scanned the room, leaned closer to her, and lowered his voice. “Do you know anything about that call Eve got on her program last Wednesday?”
For a few seconds, the tinkle of cutlery against china, the clink of ice in glasses, and the background hum of conversation and laughter faded as she digested his question—and the implications.
Doug suspected she’d played a role in Wednesday’s incident. That her ambition had driven her to take desperate measures to unseat Eve and create a slot for herself.
Perhaps he even thought she’d been involved in the fake bomb and the latest incident he’d referenced.
Wow.
The man was much more astute—and far less blinded by attraction—than she’d deduced.
They were on dangerous ground here, and she had to think the situation through.
“Why would you ask me that?” She stared at him, her shock real rather than manufactured, buying herself a few moments to regroup.
His attention remained riveted on her. No eye shifting now. “Because I know you want a chance on radio . . . and you’ve always followed Eve’s career . . . and you were clear in your call on Wednesday that you’d be interested in her slot if the situation the caller created blew up.”
She swallowed past the expletive that popped onto her tongue.
All these months she’d been convinced she had Doug snowed.
But apparently hormones hadn’t disengaged the left side of his brain.
“I was super stressed Wednesday, and I overstepped. I’m sorry for that. However, I make no apologies for being ambitious.”
He saw through her hedge. “I don’t expect you to. Eve was also ambitious. But she got her chance through hard work rather than resorting to subterfuge.”
Despite the sudden churning in her stomach, Carolyn managed to keep her brain firing.
There was only one way to play this unexpected turn of events.
She snatched up her purse, pulled out a twenty, tossed it on the table, and stood. “I expect it’s too late to cancel my order. Take my lunch back to your office for someone to enjoy. I’ve lost my appetite.”
Lifting her chin, she walked away.
Before she got three steps, he spoke. “Carolyn. Wait.”
She paused. Exhaled.
Her bluff had paid off.
After letting him sweat for a few beats, she angled back, shoulders taut. Like anyone’s would be if they’d been accused of orchestrating the kind of coup her mentor had suggested.
Doug had risen, and he circled around the table to join her, keeping his voice low. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”
The words were appropriate—but he looked more uncertain than sorry.
“I can’t believe, after all the months we’ve known each other, that you’d think I could do such a terrible thing.”
“Ambition can be powerful—and temptation can be hard to resist.”
At such close proximity, the creases in his face were more pronounced than usual. Definitely a man past his prime.
The appeal of the plucking option continued to wane.
But in light of that remark about temptation . . . and judging by the hunger in the depths of his eyes . . . she might still have a certain amount of power over him if they could get past this glitch.
And she’d use it if necessary, distasteful though it would be.
She softened her stance—and tone. “What kind of temptation?”
His features tightened, almost as if he was in pain. “To have something that isn’t in your best interest.”
Doug wasn’t talking about the radio show she coveted.
He was talking about coveting her.
That was reassuring—but for now, she’d play the innocent. “Why wouldn’t the chance of a radio job be in my best interest?”
“I’m not saying it isn’t—but rushing an opportunity could be a mistake. There are repercussions for every decision.”
Like cheating on your wife?
But that was his problem. Her sole concern was her career. “Not all repercussions are bad. And I’ve always believed you should seize opportunities, because they may not come again.” She smoothed out a crease in the lapel of his sport jacket. “That doesn’t mean I believe you should resort to anything underhanded to foster them, however.”
He studied her, conflict scoring his features. “I’d like to think you’re being honest with me.”
“As you should. Always think the best of people—especially friends who’ve given you no cause to distrust them.”
Her response didn’t placate him. “Carolyn—I want to give you the benefit of the doubt. But your call Wednesday . . . it bothered me.” He massaged the puckers on his forehead. “Can you assure me you’ve had nothing to do with all the troubles plaguing Eve?”
She huffed out a breath and retracted her hand. “Do I look like someone who would leave a fake bomb?”
“No—but I have no experience with people who leave fake bombs. I don’t know what they look like.”
She tucked her purse under her arm and hiked up her chin again. “This is not a discussion I intend to have in the middle of a restaurant. If you want our friendship to continue, I’ll expect an apology. Otherwise, I won’t be here next Monday.”
With that, she spun on her heel and stalked to the door.
Doug didn’t follow.
Unfortunately.
That meant he was unconvinced about her innocence. Unsure whether to trust the woman he’d been mentoring for the past eight months.
This setback was past aggravating. It was downright disturbing.
She pushed through the door, into cloying air thick with humidity.
After all the months she’d spent currying Doug’s favor with mild flirting and ego strokes, pinning her radio future on him, how could he distance himself from her? Aside from Wednesday’s ill-advised call, she’d done nothing to deserve his distrust.
Nothing that he could prove, at least.
Tightening her grip on her purse, she trekked toward her car.
Maybe he’d come around, call her to apologize, beg her to keep their lunch date next Monday.
But what if he didn’t? What if, instead of caving to the temptation to spend time with her . . . and perhaps share more than lunch . . . he cut her off? Continued to doubt her innocence?
Would he take his suspicions to the police?
And if he did, what would that do to her career—and her ambitions?
Despite the warmth in the air, a cold chill raced through her.
Gritting her teeth, she shook it off.
Even if Doug did mention his misgivings to the case detective—and the police decided to investigate—their efforts would come to nothing. If there was any evidence to be found for any of the incidents that had occurred with Eve, it would have surfaced by now.
There was no reason to worry.
She was safe—and so were her ambitions.
Knock, knock.
At the hard rapping on her back door, Eve jerked away from the floor buffer she’d just turned off in the living room and swiveled toward the kitchen.
Calm down, Eve. If someone was up to no good, they wouldn’t be knocking on your door.
Gulping a steadying breath, she stripped off her dust mask and ducked around the plastic barrier taped over the opening to the foyer that was supposed to contain the mess. Heart still hammering, she hurried toward the back of the house.
As she approached the door and her neighbor waved at her through the window, her pulse slowed.
After wiping her hands on her jean cutoffs, she unlocked and opened the door. “Hi, Olivia. I’d invite you in, but the house is a dust bowl.” She slipped outside.
“My.” The woman gave her a once-over. “Have you been cleaning out your attic?”
“Worse. Refinishing floors. A job not for the faint of heart, let me tell you.”
“I don’t mean to interrupt such an ambitious enterprise—but I baked chocolate chip pecan cookies and brought you a few.” The woman lifted a plate covered with plastic wrap. “They came out of the oven ten minutes ago.”
“Wow.” Eve took the home-baked goodies and breathed in the scent seeping through the plastic. “These smell delicious. You’re going to spoil me.”
Olivia waved the comment aside. “An occasional sweet-tooth indulgence never spoiled anyone.”
“In that case—I’ll eat one . . . or two . . . or three.” She grinned. “If I get us each a soda, would you sit with me for a few minutes while I take a break and put a dent in these?” She indicated the plate.
“I’d be delighted. The only item on my afternoon schedule is a few soaps, and I’d much rather visit with my famous neighbor.”
Eve snorted. “Hardly famous.”
“But you’re getting there. You keep at it, you’ll be up there with that Russ Limbo everyone talks about.”
Not likely—but it was a kind sentiment . . . even if Olivia wouldn’t know Rush Limbaugh from the current teenage heartthrob. The woman was much more conversant about vintage movies than current events.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Olivia patted her arm. “I may be old, but I can recognize talent.”
“Have a seat while I get those sodas.”
Eve returned to the kitchen, fixed their drinks, and rejoined her neighbor at the patio table.
“True confession—I stole one of your cookies.” Olivia flashed a guilty smile as she accepted a soda.
“You can’t steal cookies you baked.” Eve bit into one and closed her eyes, letting the gooey chocolate dissolve on her tongue. “Bliss.”
“I’m glad you like them. What with all the recent excitement in your life, I decided comfort food was in order.”
“I agree—and these fit the bill.”
“I keep hoping the police will find whoever is behind the unfortunate incidents. Have they made any strides at all?”
“None they’ve shared with me.”
The woman exhaled. “I’m sorry to hear that. I noticed that nice-looking young detective leaving your house Saturday night and I hoped there’d been a break in the case.”
“No.” Eve took another bite of cookie. How to explain Brent’s visit? If she told her neighbor about the incident in the school parking lot, Olivia would worry more. “He was here to follow up on a few details.” True—except the details were about the latest attack.
“Oh.” Olivia’s face fell. “That’s disappointing.”
“I know they’re working hard to find the culprit—but in the meantime, I’m hoping he’ll get tired of the game and my life will return to normal.”
“I wonder if that’s already happened? It has been six days since that call to the station.”
“True.” Eve picked up another cookie and changed the subject. “These are delicious.”
“I’m glad you like them, my dear. Best of all, you don’t have to worry about how many you eat. Hard as you work, you’ll burn those calories off in a jiffy.”
“I wish.”
“No wishing necessary. It’s true. You’re refinishing floors, for heaven’s sake.” She shook her head. “In my day, women didn’t tackle such jobs. Not that we couldn’t have, mind you—but letting a man do the heavy work does have its advantages.” She winked.
“I see your point.” But having someone to work with her, side by side, on projects like this would be even more appealing. Especially someone with dark brown eyes . . . warm, firm lips . . . and character stamped on every contour of his face.
“Besides, all your running around keeps you in shape too. Going to the radio station at the crack of dawn, riding your bike, taking those spanning classes, your frequent speaking engagements.” She exhaled. “I don’t know how you keep all those balls in the air.”
“There are days I don’t either.” Eve took a third cookie.
“You gave a speech last weekend, didn’t you? At an outdoor event—a rally, I believe?”
“No, that’s a week from Saturday. Last weekend was the PTA talk.”
“Oh yes. I remember now. The next event is a picnic for politicians . . . or is it young entrepreneurs . . . or veterans?”
“All of the above, I expect.” She washed down the remains of her last cookie. “It’s the annual barbecue for a Young Republicans group. The members fall into all those categories.”
“You are one busy lady.”
“I love my work—and I like doing my part to protect the values that built this country.”
Olivia nodded. “It’s important to stand up for what you believe—no matter the risk.”
“I agree.”
“Well . . .” The older woman pushed herself to her feet. “I should be off. You have to get back to your floor job.”
“And prepare for tomorrow’s radio program.” She rose too. “Thank you again for the cookies. I can assure you they won’t last long.”
“I’ll whip up another batch soon. Don’t work too hard.” Olivia patted her arm and crossed the deck.
“Would you like an extra arm to lean on while you go down the steps?” Eve knew the answer before her spry neighbor responded.
“I’m fine.” She started down. “The doctor’s after me to use a cane, but I’m resisting. These legs may not be as strong as they once were, but they get me where I have to go without any propping up.”
Eve waited until Olivia crossed the lawn and disappeared onto her patio, then wandered back inside, locking the door behind her.
Quiet descended.
Too much quiet.
It was a shame she didn’t have an excuse to call Brent for an update.
But he’d left one on her voicemail yesterday, while her cell was stowed in a locker during spinning class—and it had been both detailed and concise. The CSU tech had found a few dark hairs clumped beside her car, and Brent had promised to call her if they yielded any useful information. He hadn’t asked about the status of the tire situation, nor offered to drive her to the school parking lot to retrieve her car, so she’d hitched a ride in the mechanic’s truck.
Sighing, she set the plate of cookies on the counter and tossed the two empty soft drink cans into the recycle bin.
Why, oh why, had he called during her class?
Eve trudged back to the living room, slipped on the dust mask, and flipped the switch on the buffer.
But her mind wasn’t on the task at hand. It was busy trying to manufacture a reason to call Brent.
Could she fill him in on her conversation yesterday with the security firm he’d recommended, perhaps? Was that a sufficient excuse?
No.
Give it up, Eve.
Grasping the handle on the buffer, she resumed the tedious chore of moving the piece of equipment from side to side, following the grain. The old finish turned to powder beneath it, making it easy to see where to move next.
Too bad the course to follow with Brent wasn’t as obvious.
Nevertheless, the basics were clear.
If he wanted to talk with her, he’d call—and if he got her voicemail again, he’d ask her to return the call rather than leave a message.
He hadn’t yet done that.
So . . . she should wait. Give him breathing room after their conversation on Saturday night. If he was running scared, a woman who was too forward could send him fleeing the opposite direction.
Or maybe her impromptu kiss had already done that.
The drone of the buffer masked her huff as the machine continued to smooth out the rough spots in the wood and remove the layers of protective finish.
It was a shame there wasn’t a buffer for the soul—and the heart.
Other than love, of course.
But love carried risk. It required taking a leap into the unknown and a willingness to fail—and fall.
For a person like Brent, whose experience with love—or the lack of love—was disastrous, that risk could be too formidable.
Not the happiest thought she’d had today—and it stuck with her for the remainder of the job.
Once all the bad junk had been stripped off the wood, she shut off the buffer, leaving the mask over her nose as dust motes swirled around the room.
There were two tactics she could employ to convince Brent to take another chance on love.
The first involved a follow-up phone call—after a reasonable interval—if he didn’t get in touch with her. That step was a given. The only challenge was deciding what constituted a reasonable interval.
The second tactic involved prayer. Also a given—and one she intended to launch immediately.
Because cutting through all the garbage that was preventing him from dipping his toes into romance again could very well take a miracle.