Blame it on Cupid (18 page)

Some thumping noise jolted him, jolted her into opening her eyes. Something seemed to have fallen. Like a major stack of magazines. He noticed, sort of, but mostly he noticed her liquid eyes, her breathlessness. “Are you okay?” he asked in a low voice.

“Um…sort of,” she responded with complete honesty, her voice as dusky as a whisper. She seemed to gather herself, realize where they were, see the fallen books and magazines. “Good grief.”

Yeah, he thought, she'd finally gotten it. How dangerous they were together. The price you paid for teasing the tiger. Or the bear. Whatever.

He couldn't help feeling a little bad that now she looked so…vulnerable. “I'll take care of all this stuff that fell down,” he said firmly.

He bent down, and so did she, but he reached the scatter of magazines and books first. He picked them all up, pushed them back on the shelves.

They all fell down again.

“You're sure you're all right? I could walk you out,” he said.

“No, honestly. I'm fine.”

“I don't know what to say—”

“You don't have to say anything,” she said gently. “I had a feeling that was coming. Maybe not this minute, in this silly store. But that it was going to happen sooner or later.”

“I did, too.” Well. He took a breath. It felt darn selfish to just leave her in that state of intense arousal, by herself, not do anything to help her get over it. But then that was the point, wasn't it? Teaching her a lesson? Making sure they didn't keep risking this kind of crap. “I have to get home, Merry—”

“Of course you do. Me, too.”

So he stumbled away from her—at least until she called him back.

“Jack?”

He turned.

“Don't you want to take your shopping cart?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

He got to the front, went through the checkout, forgot his wallet. Then realized it was in his back left pocket. In the parking lot, he momentarily forgot where he'd parked his truck.

He kept thinking, maybe it was cruel to do that to her in a public store like that. She
was
his neighbor, after all. And his hands had been all over her, even if they had been wearing all their clothes. When he was younger—he'd just been nicer, that's all.

He opened the truck door, climbed in, then couldn't fit the key in the lock. A minute later—possibly three—he realized that the black GMC only looked like his. It was someone else's.

He stumbled back out, recarrying all his groceries and swearing at shopping in general. It was definitely a good thing they got that kind of dark, dangerous embrace thing over with, he mused.

She'd really learned a lesson.

He wouldn't have to worry about her so much after this.

T
HE CHILLY RECEPTIONIST
in Lee Oxford's office had told Merry to have a seat fifteen minutes ago. Normally she'd have minded the wait, especially since she was nervous about the coming conversation with the attorney. But this morning, she was content to just curl up in a chair. Her mind was on Jack, had been since those crazy kisses in the grocery store two nights ago.

He'd been such a basket case, the darling. Who'd ever guess that a few kisses would shake up a sophisticated grown man so much?

Yet she'd seen him falling over his feet, then walking off without his cart. And in the parking lot, she'd watched him climb into the wrong truck—not that she'd ever tell him. It was just so adorable and endearing that a few kisses from her—with her—had affected him so strongly.

Of course, they'd affected her, too.

So much so that she was seriously considering jumping him. It was increasingly obvious—no matter how volatile he was when he responded to her—that he was too chivalrous to initiate an invitation himself. Merry had never experienced chemistry this powerful. She sure as Pete didn't want to waste it. Because she was trying to be more cautious, though, she kept trying to think of reasons why she shouldn't seduce him.

There didn't seem to be any.

He was a good man. A hero. Trustworthy. A great dad. Honest. Helpful. Hot. He seemed lonely—she had the impression from the neighborhood that there were a fair number of women wandering in and out of his Friday nights—but no one who stayed. He was all alone in that big house most of the time.

It wouldn't be a good idea for the kids to find them in bed together, of course, but that was a question of care and logistics, not a deterrent in itself. And she'd given up her entire private life. She had absolutely no private life, come to think of it. But she could hardly give up sex altogether until Charlene was grown up, could she? So a relationship overall seemed a good idea. For him. For her.

Or was she just giving herself an excuse for jumping him?

As much as she loved mulling the problem of Jack, though, the attorney's secretary finally signaled that Lee Oxford was free. She popped to her feet, but dread immediately rolled in her tummy. She'd called Lee for this meeting, but that didn't mean she really wanted to be here. Questions and worries just kept coming up that she couldn't answer on her own.

Mr. Napoleon had shoes that gleamed like mirrors and bling for cuffs this morning. Like before, he had a smile that could charm a snake, and he might have kept her waiting, but now she was barely seated before he handed her a check.

“What's this?” she asked in confusion.

“For the storm damage. The insurance settlement came directly to me.” He raised a brow. “Actually, I thought you'd be chafing at the bit to get the money before this. And you don't seem to be drawing on your guardian account, so I assume there was a problem that you needed a fast resolution about there, too.”

Truthfully, she'd completely forgotten about all that. Sooner or later, she had to get around to paying some bills and all that, but right now, she had serious questions on her mind, not silly issues like money. “I have four questions,” she said.

“Shoot.”

“June Innes. Lee, do we have to do what she says?”

Lee poured coffee from a sterling carafe for both of them. “Well, yes and no. She was appointed by the court, so she has the court's ear, and she will be regularly reporting to the judge for at least a year. That doesn't mean you
have
to do anything she says. But she does have the power to haul you in front of the judge, question your fitness, any time she wants.”

“That's what I was afraid you'd say,” Merry muttered. “I don't think she likes me.”

“You're young and pretty. Of course she doesn't like you,” Lee said wryly. “But she's been doing the
ad litem
thing for the court for years. Most of her cases are elderly. She pulls a real tiger act for them, so I tend to label her on the good-guy team. But I have to say—I've never seen her in an adolescent case. I can't believe she'd relate too well to today's kids.”

“That's my impression.”

“I also think she's always on the side of the victim, which means that she'd inherently see you as a potential problem. She's used to protecting old people from others who are trying to swindle or use them—so that's how she'd tend to see you. As the person who'd be involved in this for Charlene's money. She'd tend to be suspicious of you, even if you weren't damned adorable.”

There were times Merry loved a compliment. But not from the attorney, and not now. “She just has very rigid ideas about how Charlene should be raised. And maybe she's right. I've never been a parent. But I can't see why I have to push stuff on Charlene—like discipline—unless there's a reason. And she's really adamant about Charlene seeing a counselor, but Lee, Charlene just as adamantly doesn't want to.”

Lee leaned back with his coffee. “I hear you. But overall, I can't make those calls for you, Merry. It's on you.”

“Thanks.” She should have known, Mr. Armani wouldn't stick his neck out, either to defend her or to offer advice that wasn't related to his financial interests. “Okay. Easier question. What am I supposed to do about Charlie's car?”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don't know. I mean—I already have a car. A good car that I love. And I can't drive two. But Charlie's car would carry around more kids, if and when I do more carpooling. So I just need to clarify—do I have permission to drive Charlie's car? Or to sell it? I mean, what am I supposed to do?”

“God. If clients would just bring me problems this easy to solve,” Lee said wryly. “Do whatever the hell you want. If Charlie's car works better for you in the parenting role, you're fully entitled to it. I'll get your name on that insurance if it isn't already. No sweat.”

“Okay.” She guessed that one, but now she fidgeted in the leather chair. “Lee, I'd like to redecorate Charlie's room.”

“And you're telling me this, why?”

“Because I'd need money to do it.”

“Merry, we talked about this. You have a whole checking account that regularly refills from Charlie's estate. You don't have to ask permission to use the money. You just have to keep receipts and be able to verify that the use is for the upkeep of the house, the issues related to Charlene's life.”

“I know you told me that.” She rubbed two fingers on her temples. “But it feels like stealing.”

“Huh?”

She should have known Lee wouldn't get it. Stacks of bills had been breeding by the phone in the kitchen. It just felt weird to use money that wasn't hers, even though she knew she was entitled to pay the electric bill—and using the money on something “unnecessary” like redecorating was a lot less practical than electric bills. In principle, she should love living a princess's life. The reality just seemed a little touchier. But she moved on. “Next question. Could I get a job?”

“You don't financially need a job.” Lee's tone reflected his opinion that they'd already covered this subject.

“I know I don't. Financially. And I've been filling every hour I can with Charlie's life, doing things at her school, volunteering every place in her life that I can get involved. But there's still a lot of time in a day. Is there something illegal or problematic in my being her guardian if I also had a job?”

“If the job didn't interfere with your full-time care of Charlene, I can't imagine a problem. But you've got a helluva generous living allowance, so I guess my advice is…what's your hurry with working? Hold your horses. Settle in for a few months. You're always going to look better to the court if you look like a devoted full-time mom figure.”

“Which brings me to my last question,” Merry said slowly. “The real mom figure. Charlene's mother. I keep worrying about her—if she's still alive, where she is, if she could show up in Charlene's life. What I should do if she did show up.”

Lee didn't hesitate. “That would be a legal issue, Merry. Basically out of your hands. I don't think you need to borrow trouble. She hasn't been part of Charlene's life in all these years. But if she shows up, just call me. It'll be my problem after that.”

“I believe the mother knew Charlie's family in Minnesota, so she could have heard that Charlie died, that her daughter's alone. That's why I keep thinking about it.”

“Well, you can think about it until the cows come home, honey. Charlie used to worry that she'd show up, too. But basically there's nothing anyone can do unless the woman actually appears and then tries to make some kind of claim on Charlene. Let's not worry about a cow that hasn't even left the barn, okay?”

Maybe the attorney thought all his folksy cow metaphors were reassuring, but on the drive home, Merry was antsier than ever. At least she'd gotten those issues off her chest, but the meeting hadn't solved anything.

The deeper she got into this guardian business, the more she realized that Lee couldn't give her answers. Neither could any outsider. The only answers that seemed to matter had to come from inside her.

How unfair was that?

Quickly, though, she pushed that annoying thought aside. Charlene was going to be home from school shortly…and then they had a sleepover to prepare for.

If there was one thing Merry was outstanding at, it was parties.

Charlie was going to have a fabulous night tonight with her friends, or Merry was going to die trying.

A hum started in the back of her throat and built to a full-fledged zesty mood. It didn't even bother her when Charlene walked in the door from school, as excited as a sleepy turtle. Charlene was never going to be the kind of kid to dance on the table with joy.

Merry was. In fact, she figured she could do enough boogie-woogie-ing for the two of them.

“Merry, you don't have to
do
all this. You don't have to fuss at all,” Charlie kept saying. “It's just some kids coming over.”

“We're not fussing. We're just getting stuff ready.” Like pushing all the living room furniture against the walls so there'd be room for a half-dozen sleeping bags. Like baking three batches of brownies, four platters of chocolate chip cookies, and a half dozen flavors of chip dip. Like piling up a dozen DVDs to choose from. Like heaping pillows around, and games, and decks of cards.

“What are you wearing?” Merry asked Charlie, who looked down at her khakis with surprise.

“What I've got on. Why not?”

“That's fine, that's fine,” Merry assured. “I just thought maybe you'd like something more comfortable….”

“I'm comfortable.”

“Okay. No prob.” Maybe Merry had sneakily hoped that having a bunch of girls over might coax Charlene to try some different clothes, but one step at a time. Obviously her friends didn't care how she looked, right? Because eight had all accepted invitations to the sleepover.

Merry was just heaping pretzels and chips on a plate with fresh dip when the back door rang.

“I'm in the bathroom,” Charlie called out.

“That's okay, I'll get it,” Merry called back, and jogged to the door, higher than Charlie was at the idea of company, voices, laughter—a houseful of fun—this evening. But then she opened the door. And said curiously, “Hi. What can I do for you?”

“I'm Robin. I'm here for the sleepover. And you're Charlie's Merry, right?”

For a moment Merry lost her voice, but then she bobbed her head like a wind-up toy. “Of course. Come in, come in. Robin.”

He did. And that was just the thing. She'd mentally pictured Robin as a chirpy little preteen, apple-cheeked, kind of plump. Not as a tall skinny reed with gangly arms and a face full of zits. A tall skinny male reed. The word
male
being the operative shock.

“Hey, Charlie?” he yelled out as he traipsed through the kitchen, wearing boots that looked about a size fifteen.

A boy, Merry repeated to herself. Not that sleepovers with boys were that odd. It's just…Charlene was eleven. The best-friends era. The best-
girlfriends
era. Or that's how she remembered it.

She sank against the counter to get a grip—until the doorbell rang a second time. Two fresh-cheeked kids were piling out of a BMW in the driveway—one was a redhead with more freckles than skin. “Sandra,” she identified herself. “And you're the cool Merry, right?”

“I'm Merry, for sure—come on in, honey—and you're—” Oh, God, oh God.

“Bo.” Bo pumped her hand, as if he'd been taught manners. She couldn't see the top of his head because he was that much taller than she was. He had young eyes. He was just so football-player-big. And he knocked three things down just trying to walk through the kitchen.

So there'd be two boys, she mentally told herself cheerfully.