Almost Perfect (7 page)

Cleo bit back a curse and glared at Gene. “Kismet? You have your sister skipping now?”

“I don't tell her what to do,” Gene protested. “We got up late, is all. Don't make a federal case of it, all right?”

“Do you have a gym coach?” Jared asked unexpectedly.

“Yeah, they got one. What of it?”

“What teams are you on?”

Gene's expression puckered into discontent. “I'm too short for any teams.”

“For the wrestling team?”

“Ain't got no wrestling team.” Scorn laced with bitterness in a combination only a thirteen-year-old could produce.

Cleo didn't know where Jared was going with this. The schools here didn't have a lot of money, and sports of any sort cost money. She knew Gene's mother couldn't afford athletic shoes, much less fees.

She'd like to know why her tenant had taken this sudden interest. It sure as hell couldn't be to impress her.

“I was on a wrestling team.” Jared answered her question before she asked it. “Kids your age need a physical outlet. Besides, a good coach could beat some sense into
you.” Jared turned purposeful brown eyes in Cleo's direction, eyes that warmed parts of her she hadn't realized had gone cold. “Can you round up the other one while I get the Jeep? I want to talk to the principal, and I'd rather not squeeze all of us into your truck.”

Somehow, she'd lost track of the scene. She glanced at his sweat-soaked, open shirt, and cursing her unimaginative hormones, raised a skeptical eyebrow. “If you're planning on going in there and arguing with the establishment like that, I'll hide in the woods with Kismet.”

He shrugged. “I'll clean up. C'mon kid. I've got a pair of Nikes that will probably fit you. If I'm gonna knock your block off, you ought to be properly equipped for the coffin.” He reached for Gene, remembered the box in his hand, and handed it to Cleo, along with the tube. “Merry Christmas.”

Cleo gaped in astonishment as the two of them ambled off, Gene chattering excitedly as if they were long-lost friends. She was losing her freaking mind. How had
The
Jared McCloud turned from fury to pal over a wrestling coach? If she were the type who cared, she'd surmise he'd been in trouble with his teachers once too often and knew the solution from experience. That was
his
problem.
She
wasn't getting involved.

She set the snake box on a stump for later removal to the zoo and examined the cardboard tube with curiosity. With her luck, it would contain another snake.

Gently, she eased out the paper rolled inside, unfurled it, and studied the hastily penned cartoon. The man could say a lot with few strokes of his pen. No wonder he was famous. She wished her drafting work could be as accomplished.

He'd drawn two skeleton figures. The male one was politely bowing, hat in hand, cigar clamped between his teeth. The female one—although how he'd succeeded in
denoting sex in a skeleton, she couldn't ascertain—wielded a knife in one hand and a snake in the other. She couldn't tell whether the knife was meant for the man or the snake, but she assumed this was his idea of their introduction. Very apt, if she said so herself, even if there were days she felt less female than this curvy skeleton.

She didn't want to feel gratitude toward the man invading her privacy and complicating her relationship with the kids. She resented the intrusion of dozens of work trucks roaring up and down her road all day, along with the constant pound of hammers and buzz of saws. She didn't want to look out her window and see Jared McCloud standing there with a snake in hand. Or a cartoon. Or whatever. She wanted to be left alone to put her life together again, to find some sense of security in her surroundings.

And she'd been doing just that until he intruded with his fancy cars, and teasing smile, and the boyish hank of hair she wanted to jerk out of his face. Men shouldn't be that happy. The men she knew were miserable, bitter creatures unfit for polite society. She'd like to keep it that way.

Muttering, she rolled up the cartoon and stalked off in search of Kismet. Maybe she ought to sic Jared McCloud on the kids' mother. That would bring Peter Pan back to reality.

“Look, you're not the kids' father. You don't even live here. I don't know what you think you can do, but I'm not going with you. I have to go to work.”

Cleo stood outside the Jeep, glaring at the interfering wretch who had just increased her load of guilt. He assumed entirely too much. She'd sought the privacy of this island for a reason. She didn't need crusading heroes dragging her into something that wasn't any of her business, interfering with the lives of others, and pushing her into the kind of stress that always got her into trouble. No way, no sirree, uh-uh.

Kismet drifted uncertainly between Cleo and the oversized vehicle with her brother and Jared inside. Seizing the opportunity, Cleo opened the rear door and gestured for the girl to climb in. “He'll take you to school. It's okay. He draws cartoons for a living.” She ought to thank the man for his gift, if that's what it had been, but she wasn't in a humor for it right this minute.

“I wield a mean pen, but I don't bite. Get in, Cleo. You know the situation and I don't.” Jared stepped out and leaned on the car roof to argue with her.

“You've got that right. You don't know anything about the situation. Just take the kids in to school and drop them off. They know what to do.” Cleo backed away,
jiggling her truck keys nervously. Getting into the face of the school administration to demand a wrestling coach wasn't on her agenda. Icing down her overheating engine might be on her to-do list if he didn't leave soon. He looked just as good in dress shirt as none at all.

Jared glared at her. “Chicken. You think I'll make an ass of myself.”

Well, no, the thought hadn't occurred to her. Cleo eyed him skeptically. “And that affects me how?”

He looked a bit taken aback at her reply, then shrugged and gave her the toothy grin that proved he came from a family with enough money to buy the best of dental care. “You're right. You'd probably enjoy seeing me make an ass of myself. If I promise to try, will you come with us?”

“Look, I've got
issues
, okay? Just leave it alone. Kismet, get in the car and go to school. I'll see you later, and you can tell me all about it.” She shoved the girl into the car and slammed the door after her. She lightly swatted Gene in the front seat, and he grinned at her, still naive enough to believe his hero could fight dragons and win. That was all right. Kids needed heroes. She'd be here to listen to the complaints when it all fell to pieces after Jared returned to his world.

“All right, you'll be sorry you missed the show. I've always wanted to tell school officials what I thought of them.” Jared swung back into the car and revved the engine.

Oh, yeah, she'd always wanted to tell them a thing or three as well. But she'd never had the money to put where her mouth was. People didn't take her kind of mouth on credit.

She watched them roll off, Gene cheering and Kismet dreamily wrapping her finger in her curls while staring into space. Cleo's heart ached at the hopelessness of their
situation, but she, better than anyone, knew not to interfere between parent and child. Jared didn't have a clue as to what he was getting into.

“Cleo, there's a man out here asking for you. If you don't want him, can I have him?” Marta patted her graying hair and grinned.

On a ladder counting boxes of #10 nails, Cleo jotted down the count, and glanced at her clerk. “Why me? You know enough about this stuff to answer questions.” She hadn't intended for the hardware store to become an all-female enterprise, but it had worked out that way. Men in this area weren't thrilled at the idea of working for a female, especially a bossy one like Cleo. Marta had worked construction jobs for years before a knee injury had made climbing difficult, so she'd grabbed at Cleo's offer of employment. Marta had a wide circle of girlfriends in the industry they could call on whenever they needed extra help. It had worked out far better than anyone had anticipated.

“I figured it was personal business. You mean you don't always go out with dreamboats?”

“I don't go out at all.” Climbing down, Cleo shoved straying strands of hair back from her face. The storeroom didn't get the benefit of air-conditioning, and the strands stuck to her perspiring brow, but she didn't have to look good for anyone she knew.

“I can fix that for you,” Marta said genially, following her toward the front of the store. “I know at least—”

Shrugging on her flannel shirt over her T-shirt, Cleo waved her hand dismissively. “You know better. Men are an evil influence.” At least, the ones she picked always were. Life had become much more pleasant since she'd given up the fantasy of a mommy-and-daddy family. She
had Matty and a good job and money in the bank. She'd like to keep it that way.

Using a clean rag to wipe her face, she emerged from the storeroom and almost stopped dead in her tracks. The man at the counter stood tall and broad enough to be an NBA star, but something in his taut stance and suspicious eyes spoke of dangerous intelligence. Why the devil would a man like that know her name? And then it struck her—Jared. This man had Jared's long nose and face and bones, just in a larger, better-proportioned, more hazardous package. Shootfire.

“I'm Cleo Alyssum,” she said warily.

The man nodded gravely, without a hint of Jared's easy smile. “I'm Timothy John McCloud, Jared's brother. People usually call me TJ. He said you could give me directions to his place.”

She considered peeking around him to see what kind of expensive machine waited at the curb, but thought better of it. Peeking around this man wouldn't be easy. Half a head taller than she, Jared was a comfortable height. This man was downright intimidating. She didn't think it wise to let him loose in her private war zone without a warning. “I can tell you how to get there, but he probably isn't home right now. He's over at the school making trouble.”

Gray eyes lit with a knowing beam. “That's all Jared ever did at school was make trouble. You must be the creative inventor he told me about. I'm eager to encounter your ‘lane of horrors.’ ”

Inventor? Well, that was a five-star word for mechanic. “I noticed he has a need to exaggerate,” she said dryly. “There's a construction crew out there now, so you can't miss the place. Just take the highway out to the causeway and once you're on the island, watch for the drive on the left with the construction sign. Unless you
have a four-wheel drive, go slow and be careful. I'm not set up for visitors.”

“Imposed on you, did he? Jared never did learn the meaning of ‘no.’ He only has another two months to complete that script, so he shouldn't run over you for too long. It was good meeting you, Cleo.”

With a polite nod, he strode out. Cleo caught sight of a sedate white sedan at the curb and figured it was a rental. No fun at all.

Two months? Jared was going to all this trouble for a two-month project? The man was utterly insane. And not working hard at finishing the project if he had time to chase kids through the woods and stalk school principals. But then, he hadn't struck her as the ambitious workaholic type. His brother had that look about him, though.

“My, my.” Marta wiped her hands on her carpenter's apron and watched approvingly as TJ McCloud folded himself into his car and drove away. “Isn't it time you had a dinner party and invited your new neighbors and me?”

“I've got peanut butter in the cabinet. You're welcome to it.” Picking up her inventory pad, Cleo returned to the storeroom. When tall dark strangers entered her life, they were usually feds. With luck, this one would disappear before she encountered him again.

Jared cursed and hit the brakes of his Jeep upon spotting Tim standing in the drive, inspecting the swinging witch. His brother would have the straggle-haired figure flat on its back and dissected if left alone long enough.

“What is the meaning of the red shoes?” TJ asked, still eyeing the witch while Jared climbed out of the car.

“Didn't you ever watch
Wizard of Oz
?” Jared shook
his head in disgust at his very literal, science-oriented brother. “I don't think we come from the same family.”

“You may wish otherwise, but the relationship is rather unavoidable.” Giving up on the witch, TJ turned to his younger brother. “You're not looking stressed and burned out.”

“When was the last time you believed Mom? If she doesn't have anything to worry over, she makes things up. Didn't she get chosen for the Charity Ball committee this year?”

Tim shrugged. “That, and the bachelor auction. But despite your assertions otherwise, she does know we exist.”

Jared snorted. “Benign neglect coupled with guilt leads to an overactive worry gland, then. If Mom's the only reason you're down here, you can leave now without a qualm.” He walked back to the Jeep.

Tim ambled after him. “Your landlady said you were at the school making trouble. Does this mean you've finished the screenplay and don't have anything better to do?”

Since there was no sign of Tim's car, Jared figured his brother had walked up from the beach. There'd be no getting rid of him and his nagging now. “The project is done when I say it is. Now, if you want to reform somebody, you don't need to look further than Cleo—hard-boiled, antagonistic, and just plain mean—she ought to be a prime candidate.”