Come to think of it, since I’d been hanging out with him, my life had been almost nonstop turmoil, and…“Hey! None of what’s happened to me has been my fault!” I said indignantly, catching on that he’d implied otherwise.
“Sure it has. You’re a trouble magnet,” he said as he strolled out the door.
I followed, of course. “My life was calm before you showed up! My life was Lake Placid! If anyone here is a trouble magnet, it’s you.”
“Nicole Goodwin got murdered in your parking lot before I showed up,” he pointed out.
“Which had nothing to do with me. I didn’t kill her.” I felt really good about that, because there had been times when I could have, very cheerfully.
“You got in a fight with her, which was why she was hanging around your parking lot, which is why she was murdered there, which is what gave your asshole ex-husband’s crazy wife the idea of killing you and blaming it on Nicole’s killer.”
Sometimes I just hate the way his mind works. He grinned at me as he got in his truck. I couldn’t kick anything without making my head hurt—I couldn’t do much of anything without making my head hurt, and he knew it—so I contented myself with closing the door on his grin and going in search of a pen and paper on which to start a list of his newest transgressions. I wrote “Baits and teases me when I’m injured” and left the list lying where he could see it. Then, on the principle that one item does not a list make, I went back and added, “Blames me for things that aren’t my fault.”
As lists went, this one was pretty anemic. I wasn’t satisfied with it at all. I wadded up the paper and threw it away; it was better to have no list at all than to let the impact be watered down.
Frustrated, I went back upstairs and did some more Internet surfing, but it, too, was fruitless. Almost an hour later, I logged off. I wasn’t having any fun at all.
The phone rang and I snatched it up on the first ring, not waiting to check the Caller ID, mainly because I was bored and frustrated.
“Too bad I missed” came a malevolent whisper, then there was a click and the call disconnected.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. Had I heard what I thought I’d heard? Too bad I missed?
What the hell—? If I’d heard correctly, and I wasn’t certain I had, the only way that made sense was if the Buick-driving bitch somehow knew who I was, and since my little incident hadn’t been reported in the paper—probably because it was too unimportant, which sort of ticked me off—that meant she knew exactly who I was. That put the whole thing in a new light—one I didn’t like. But that was the only time anyone had “missed” me in any way, at least since the last time my ex-husband’s wife, Debra Carson, had shot at me. The first time, she’d hit me; the second time, she’d accidentally hit her husband.
But it couldn’t be Debra, could it? She was out on bail, they both were, but the last time I’d seen her she’d been ecstatic that Jason loved her enough that he’d tried to kill me, too, and since her original motive was jealousy, that pretty well took care of that, didn’t it?
I checked Caller ID, but I’d answered the call too fast and the information hadn’t been processed. The last call that showed was the one from Jenni.
Alarmed, I called Wyatt. “Where are you?”
“I just unloaded the arbor at Mom’s. What’s up?”
“I just got a call. A woman said ‘Too bad I missed’ and hung up.”
“Wait a minute,” he said, and I heard some fumbling noises, then he said, “Repeat that.” His voice was a little clearer, a little louder, and I could almost see him cradling the phone between his head and shoulder while he reached for his pen and notebook, which went everywhere with him.
“She said, ‘Too bad I missed,’” I repeated obediently.
“Did you recognize the name on Caller ID?”
That would be the first thing he asked. “I answered too fast for it to register,” I replied.
There was a short silence. He probably always waits to see who’s calling. Normally, so did I. He must have decided not to make an issue of it, though, because he merely said, “Okay. Are you certain that’s what she said?”
I thought about it, replaying the words in my head, and honesty made me admit, “Not completely certain, no. She was whispering. But that’s what it sounded like. If you want percentages, I’m eighty percent certain that’s what she said.”
“If it was a whisper, are you certain it was a woman, and not a crank call from a teenage boy?”
Asking questions like this was his job, and I’d learned that cops almost never take things at face value, but I was getting annoyed. I stuffed the annoyance down—time for that later—and once again mentally reviewed what I’d heard. “I’m more certain of that, maybe ninety-five percent.” The only reason I wasn’t a hundred percent certain was that for a short time between childhood and adolescence, a boy’s voice could sound like a woman’s, and also because some women have deep voices and some men have light voices. You just can’t be a hundred percent certain on something like that.
He didn’t ask any more questions, didn’t comment on the call, just said, “I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. If any more calls come in, don’t answer unless you know who’s calling. Let the machine pick up.”
No more calls came in, thank goodness, and he was there in twelve minutes, not that I was clock-watching or anything. Twelve minutes was long enough for me to begin wondering if I’d overreacted, if maybe I was on edge from the parking-lot incident, added to the stress from the wedding deadline. The truth was, I was beginning to feel paranoid. I’d had crank calls before, and they hadn’t made me wonder if someone was after me.
I met Wyatt at the door and went into his arms. “I’ve been thinking about it,” I said into his shoulder, “and I think maybe the stress from your deadline is making me crack up.”
He didn’t even pause, just gently maneuvered me backwards. “I’m not even in the door yet and already it’s my fault.”
“No, it was your fault before that, but you’re just now hearing about it.”
He shut the front door and locked it. “Are you saying you think you overreacted?”
I didn’t like the way he phrased that, even though I’d thought the same thing to myself. Overreacting sounds so…immature. “On edge,” I corrected. “Not just from almost being hit by a car, but from being shot, being in a car wreck, then abducted at gunpoint by Jason the nitwit and almost shot again by his nitwit wife…It’s as if I’ve started expecting stuff like this to happen.”
“So now you don’t think she said ‘too bad I missed’?” He still had his arms around me, but his eyes were narrow as he studied my face, as if he wanted to read every little change of expression.
I couldn’t say that, because I did think that was what she’d said. “I think it could have been a wrong number, or a crank call—either that or Jason’s nitwit wife has gone off the deep end again and is working herself up for another shot at me.”
Okay, so it isn’t that easy to get over paranoia.
“If you think you can get a deadline extension out of this, forget about it,” he said, his eyes going even more narrow.
I scowled up at him, ticked off. I’d been genuinely alarmed, and even though I could now see the probability that there was nothing to the call, not once had I thought about using any of this to get a deadline extension. He’d issued a challenge with his damned deadline; no way would I wimp out now. I’d make that wedding happen if I had to be pushed to the altar in a wheelchair, trailing bandages like some mummy out of a horror movie.
“Have I asked for an extension?” I snapped, pulling out of his arms a little too forcefully, which made my head throb.
“You’ve complained about the deadline plenty.”
“Which is not the same thing! This wedding will happen even if it nearly kills me.” And all the trouble and bad stuff would be held over his head for the foreseeable future. See how this works? Why would I give up an
advantage like that, just because of a concussion and some scrapes? Not that he’d care about all the bad stuff being held over his head, because he’s contrary that way, but he’d still have to deal with it whenever we had an argument.
I poked him in the chest. “The only way we won’t get married in four weeks—”
“Three weeks and six days.”
I glared at him. Damn him, he was right. “Four weeks” sounded much longer than “three weeks and six days” even though there was only one day’s difference between the two. Time was ticking away from me. “Is if you don’t get your stuff accomplished.”
“My stu—” he started to ask, then memory surfaced. The flowers. “Shit.”
“You forgot? You forgot the flowers for our wedding?” My voice started to rise. Can I play a situation, or what? If he stopped to think for a minute he’d realize no way would I leave something that important to any man who wasn’t gay, but so far he hadn’t had that minute. A little payback is a good thing.
“Calm down,” he said testily, walking past me into the kitchen to get a drink of water. I suppose loading and unloading an arbor can be thirsty work, even though the cool snap had persisted. “It’ll get done.”
I followed him. “I’m calm. I’m pissed, but I’m calm. Calmly pissed. How’s that?” I was getting a little testy, too. The last couple of days had been stressful. The proof of that was that we seemed to be getting into an argument, a real argument.
He slugged back a glass of water, then set the glass down with a definite clink. “Is it time for your period, or something?”
With unerring instinct, he’d found a great big red button, and pushed it. Wyatt fights to win, which means he fights dirty. I understand the concept because that’s how I fight, too, but understanding it didn’t stop me from reacting. I could practically feel my blood bubbling with steam. “What?”
He turned around, all controlled aggression, and damned if he didn’t push the button again. “What is it about having a period that makes women so bitchy?”
I paused for a moment, struggling against the urge to leap on him and tear him limb from limb. For one thing, I love him. Even when he’s being an asshole, I love him. For another, any attempt to leap and tear right now would hurt me way worse than I could possibly hurt him. It was an effort, but I said as sweetly as possible, “It isn’t that we’re bitchier, it’s that having a period makes us feel all tired and achy, so we have less tolerance for all the bullshit we normally SUFFER IN SILENCE.” By the time the sentence ended the sweetness was long gone, my jaw was clenched, and I think my eyes were bugging out.
Wyatt took a step back, belatedly looking alarmed.
I took a step forward, my chin lowering as my eyes narrowed, watching him like a starving puma watches a wounded rabbit. “Furthermore, that’s the kind of question that makes a normally sweet-tempered woman anticipate, with great pleasure, standing over a man’s bloody…mutilated…dismembered body.” It’s really, really impossible to sound sweet when your teeth are clenched.
He took another step back, and his right hand actually went to his hip, though of course his weapon was upstairs on the bedside table. “It’s against the law to threaten an officer of the law,” he warned.
I paused, considered that, then gave a dismissive flip of my hand. “Some things,” I growled, “are just worth eternal damnation.”
Then, with Herculean effort, I turned around and left the kitchen, went back upstairs, and lay down on the bed. My head was throbbing, maybe because my blood pressure had shot up during the last couple of minutes.
He followed a couple of minutes later, lying down beside me and easing me into his arms so my head was pillowed on his shoulder. I settled against him with a sigh, the tension in me melting as I was surrounded by his heat and the hard solidity of his body. The scent of crisp air, the hint of approaching winter, still clung to his clothing and I buried my nose against him, sniffing in appreciation.
“Are you crying?” he asked suspiciously.
“Of course not. I’m smelling your clothes.”
“Why? They’re clean.” He raised his arm, the one I wasn’t lying on, and sniffed himself. “I don’t smell anything.”
“They smell like winter, like cold air.” I snuggled closer. “Makes me want to cuddle.”
“In that case, I’ll hang all my clothes outside.” His mouth curved as he turned on his side to face me, his hand going to my butt and urging my hips closer to his. Sure enough, a full erection prodded at me. Some things are as reliable as Old Faithful.
I love having sex with him. I wanted to have sex with him right then. And knowing that we couldn’t, that the headache would be too severe for me to enjoy it if we tried, was in a way its own turn-on. Forbidden fruit, and all that. We couldn’t make up after our argument the way we usually made up, which made the making out even more delicious.
He had me half-naked in no time, his hand between my legs, two big fingers gently moving in and out while his thumb took care of other business.
“Don’t make me come,” I moaned, pleading as I arched into his hand. “It’ll make my head hurt.” Oh, God, I was so close. Stopping now would be wonderfully frustrating and I would go nuts.
“I don’t think so,” he murmured, kissing his way down my neck and making sparks fizzle behind my closed eyelids. “No jostling. Just relax, and let me take care of you.” Then he bit the side of my neck and forget “close,” I was there, wave after wave of orgasm shuddering through me while he held me down and kept me from moving.
In a way, we were both right. My head hurt, but who cared?
“What about you?” I murmured as I began drifting off to sleep.
“I’ll think of something extra you can do, to make it up to me.”
Extra? What “extra”? We already did everything I was willing to do. Vaguely alarmed, I forced my eyes open. “What do you mean, ‘extra?’”
He chuckled and didn’t reply. I went to sleep wondering where I could get a suit of armor.
Wyatt has making up down to a fine art.
Chapter
Nine
I felt much better the next day, Sunday. The headache had subsided from a pounding presence to just a presence, and one that I could almost ignore.
Wyatt drove me over to his mother’s house so I could inspect the arbor; as Jenni had said, it needed a coat of paint—as well as scraping and sanding before it was painted. But it was the perfect size, and the shape was wonderful, with a graceful arch that reminded me of the onion domes on buildings in Moscow. Roberta was in love with the arbor and wanted it as a permanent addition to her garden. We agreed that sanding and painting the arbor was a perfect job for Wyatt, since he was in charge of the flowers.
I could tell from the faintly wary look in his eyes as he studied the arbor that he was beginning to realize “the flowers” meant more than a couple of vases and a bouquet. Roberta could barely hide her grin, but until he asked for help she was going to let him stew, while she quietly handled the flowers herself.
There was always a chance he wouldn’t ask for help—his inborn aggressive, dominant streak might keep him from admitting he couldn’t handle the job. We had agreed we wouldn’t let the charade go on any longer than two weeks. That was long enough to let him share in the stress, without actually letting him do something that would interfere with our plans.
Yes, it was mean. So?
From there we went to my parents’ house for lunch, to satisfy Mom’s need to fuss over me and my need to be fussed over. We were grilling pork chops—grilling is never out of season in the South—so Dad and Wyatt immediately went outside, beers in hand, to see to the grill. I thought it was cute, the way they’d bonded, two guys trying to stay afloat in a sea of estrogen.
Dad’s very philosophical and smart about it, but he’s had years of experience with Mom and Grammy—Grammy equals, like, two of me. Plus, Dad had raised three daughters. Wyatt, on the other hand, was accustomed to being immersed in guy st
uff: first football, then law enforcement. Even worse, he’s an alpha personality, and has a hard time understanding the concept of “no.” Getting me was a testament to all the dominant, aggressive facets of his personality; keeping me was a testament to his intelligence, because he’d seen right away that Dad was an expert in the war between the sexes. Okay, so it isn’t really a war; it’s more like different species. Dad speaks the language. Wyatt was learning.
Mom and I got everything ready for the grilling to start, all the while making more war plans—er, wedding plans—and when the men took over the pork chops we had a few minutes to rest. She’d found a dress online that she liked, which she’d ordered, and she showed it to me on the computer. I wasn’t having any attendants, the wedding would be smaller and more informal than that, so I didn’t have to deal with picking out bridesmaids dresses or anything like that, thank heavens. We looked some more for the gown I had in mind and once again came up empty, which was really annoying because it wasn’t as if I wanted some over-the-top wedding dress with lace and flowers and seed-pearl embroidery. I’d had that the first time I got married, and didn’t want to go through the experience again.
“I know!” Mom suddenly said, her face lighting up with inspiration. “Sally can make the gown, and this way you’ll know it’ll fit perfectly. Sketch the design you want, and we can go tomorrow to find the fabric.”
“Call Sally first,” I suggested, “to make certain she can do it.”
Sally had her own troubles right now, what with Jazz being mad because she tried to hit him with her car, and her being mad because he ruined her bedroom by having it redecorated behind her back. They were living apart, after being married for thirty-five years, and they were both miserable. I was excited by the possibility that she could make the gown, though, because that was the perfect solution. Sally was a whiz with a sewing machine; she’d made Tammy’s prom gowns, which had looked gorgeous.
Mom called Sally right then. Sally said of course she could do it, then Mom passed the phone to me and I described the gown I wanted to Sally, who, bless her, said it would be simple to make. It was a simple design, no frou-frou to it at all. The way I envisioned it, the magic would be in the flow of the fabric and the way it fit, and Wyatt wouldn’t be able to think of anything except getting me alone and out of the gown.