Christmas in Whitehorn (15 page)

"Oh, I haven't given up. I just have gotten more cautious."

And foolish, she thought, as she remembered Mark. When he'd agreed to her request to be friends, she'd allowed herself to hope things might be different with him. Ironic that she couldn't blame his
disap
-
pearance
on Dirk.

"Keep looking, Darcy," Andrew said. "You're a wonderful woman. Any man would be lucky to have you in his life."

"Right.
When you meet this paragon of virtue, be sure to give him my number, okay?"

"I promise."

Darcy rose and left Andrew's office. As she entered the hallway, she tried to take comfort in his words – that Mark's problems might not be about her at all and that eventually she would meet someone who would see Dirk for the amazing young man he was. But the cheerful thoughts didn't brighten her mood. Part of her didn't believe she was ever going to meet someone that farsighted. Part of her didn't want to meet anyone else.

She leaned against the wall and sighed. There was a truth she could have gone another few years without knowing. That she didn't want to meet Mr. Perfect Instead she wanted Mark to be the man of her dreams. She wanted him to stop acting strange and fall in love with her. She wanted him to meet her brother and be okay with Dirk and what his special circumstances meant.

Darcy told herself to get real. Wishing for the moon was only a waste of time. She would be better off convincing herself that Mark was a jerk and that she should be happy he was out of her life. Unfortunately, she didn't believe that one, either.

*

"Hey Mark, where's the pretty lady with the cinnamon rolls?" Josh Anderson asked as Mark walked into the gym on Sunday morning.

"Busy."

"Too bad.
She's a great cook." Josh eyed him speculatively. "Not bad looking, either."

Instead of answering, Mark grunted. If he were any kind of decent human being he would tell Josh that Darcy was indeed a great cook and very pretty. She was also smart, funny and incredible in bed. He grimaced. Okay, so he should probably keep that last bit to himself. But he could tell Josh the rest of it. After all, the thirty-something contractor was single.
If Mark didn't want Darcy for himself…

He shrugged out of his jacket,
then
pulled off his sweatpants and sweatshirt until he was down to shorts and a T-shirt. No way was he going to encourage Josh in the Darcy department. He tried telling himself it was because she was a suspect in a police investigation, but he knew that wasn't it at all. He might not want Darcy for himself, but he sure as hell didn't want any other guy sniffing around her.

The rest of the guys showed up and the game began. Mark found it difficult to keep his concentration on the ball and his teammates. Conversation flowed around him. He tried to participate, but a large part of his brain was too busy reminding him how long it had been since he'd last seen Darcy.

Nearly a week, he thought as Josh passed him the basketball. Mark headed for the far end of the court and tipped the ball into the net. He barely heard the calls of congratulations from his side and
the boos
from their opponents.

What
was she
thinking, he wondered. Had she noticed he hadn't been around? He shook his head as he realized that wasn't a fair question. Of course, she would have noticed. She wasn't Sylvia. Darcy didn't have an agenda. Although if she was laundering money, then the last thing she would want was to get involved with a detective. Unless she thought she could fool him.
Which brought back too many uncomfortable memories.

A week.
He hated that he missed her. Nearly as bad, he didn't feel comfortable going to the Hip Hop, so he'd been forced to actually cook a couple of meals. That had been a disaster.

"Heads up, Kincaid," someone called. A second later, the basketball slammed into his back.

Mark turned. Josh glared at him. "Are you playing or what?"

"Sorry." He took the ball out of bounds,
then
tossed it back into play.

He kept his concentration on the game for a few minutes. Then his thoughts once again drifted to Darcy. Had she realized that he hadn't been to the café? Did she wonder what had happened to their supposed friendship?

"I know what the problem is with Kincaid," one of the guys said.
"Chick trouble.
Darcy's not here. So you guys had a fight, right? What'd you do wrong?"

Josh grabbed the basketball. "What makes you think it's his fault?"

Nearly everyone laughed. "It's always the guy's fault."

Mark raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "It was me and I don't want to talk about it."

He was joking but also telling the truth. Walking out on her without saying anything had been the coward's way out. He should have confronted her about the money. The thing was
,
he didn't want to know that she was involved. He'd spent most of the week investigating her, and he still couldn't link her to anything illegal.
Which didn't mean a thing.

He stopped in the middle of the court and swore under his breath. He knew the next step. He would have to take his suspicions to Rafe and together they would get a search warrant for her place. As he couldn't explain the cash, there wasn't any other choice.

"Mark!"

Mark turned toward the sound of his name. As he moved, he felt his foot slip on a damp spot in the court. He scrambled to regain his balance, but it was too late. His ankle twisted painfully. His still-healing leg couldn't support his weight and he felt himself crashing to the ground. His last thought before his head connected with the wooden floor was that this was gonna hurt like hell.

*

Darcy carefully placed the template on the baked sheet of gingerbread. She'd already cut out the walls of the house. Once the roof was done, the pieces would need to cool a little more,
then
she would start assembling the two houses. She had all the candies she would need, but she was going to be a little short on the icing. After this was done, she would make a quick trip to the store to—

The phone rang.

She glanced up at the instrument, hating the sudden fluttering in her chest. There was no way Mark was phoning her. She hadn't seen the man in nearly a week. He'd disappeared from her life with no explanation and no warning. She was working through the stages of mourning just fine, thank you very much, although today she seemed to be stuck in anger.

The phone rang again. Reluctantly she put down her knife and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Darcy."

All the blood rushed from her head, forcing her to sink into a kitchen chair. She briefly closed her eyes and wished she didn't care that he had finally called her. How was she supposed to act?
Happy?
Angry?
Hurt?

She settled on casual. "Mark.
Nice to hear from you.
How's it going?"

"Things have just gotten real interesting." He hesitated. "Are you mad that I haven't called?"

She sucked in a breath as annoyance filled her. "Not at all," she said through slightly clenched teeth. "I've been so busy getting ready for the holidays that I barely noticed. How's work?"

"I've been busy, too." There was a pause, then something that sounded oddly like a moan. "Darcy, the reason I'm calling is that I need a ride home."

Annoyance turned to fury. How dare he expect her to be at his beck and call after first running out on her with no explanation and then ignoring her?

"Mark, I'm in the middle of making a gingerbread house. This is a very delicate time in the process. I'm not sure I can get away."

"Okay. I understand. Josh is driving my car back to the duplex. I guess I'll page him to come get me here when he's done. I didn't mean to bother you."

She sighed, hating that she was wavering. "It's not a bother.
Not exactly.
Where are you?"

"The hospital.
I wrenched my ankle. I slipped while I was playing basketball. The thing is
,
I can't drive for two days. Not until the swelling goes down."

He'd hurt himself. Nurturing instinct battled with righteous indignation. It wasn't much of a contest. "I'll be right there," she said, and hung up the phone. Twenty minutes later she walked into the emergency room of
Whitehorn
Memorial
Hospital
. The woman at the reception desk directed her to treatment room number three. Darcy stepped inside and saw Mark sitting on a hospital bed. His ankle was taped and elevated. There was also a huge bruise on the side of his face.

Her heart did a little fox-trot, her temper flared. It was an interesting combination, but then she'd always been torn where he was concerned.

Mark looked up and saw her. "Hi," he said, sounding sheepish. "I'm sorry to bother you."

"We're neighbors. I didn't mind helping." She moved closer to the bed and pointed at the swelling on his face. "You hit your head?"

"On the way down.
I didn't lose consciousness and I don't have a concussion. It looks a lot worse than it is."

Darcy had the sudden desire to make it worse. Just as a payback. But she'd never been the violent type and wouldn't have a clue as to where to start.

He waved a piece of paper. "I have my instructions.
Rest for twenty-four hours.
Keep the ankle elevated, use ice. So I'm ready to go."

"All right.
I'll go pull my car up to the entrance."

He pushed the call button for a nurse. "We'll meet you there."

Maneuvering Mark into her small car wasn't easy. His injured ankle banged against the door once and she was almost sorry for him. As they drove back to the duplex, she had a silent but heated conversation with herself during which she told him exactly what she thought of him. She was acerbic, pithy and completely cool. Unfortunately, she wasn't likely to be any of those things if she started talking out loud.

When they reached his place, he opened the door but waited before getting out.

"Thanks for taking the time to come get me," he said.

She nodded.

"I know you're busy with your holiday baking."

She nodded again.

He glared at her. "Aren't you going to talk to me?"

She turned to face him. "What do you want me to say? I came to get you because we're supposed to be friends and that's what friends do for each other. Although some people seem to define friendship by acting weird and then disappearing off the face of the planet."

He gave her a tentative smile. "Would you feel any better if I had actually been off the planet?"

She didn't respond to the twinkle of amusement in his gaze. "Were you off the planet? Did you involve yourself with space travel this week?"

His smile faded. "No."

"I thought not."

She got out of the car and came around to the passenger side. He swung himself around until he was facing the open car door,
then
pulled himself to his feet without putting any weight on the injured ankle. She had to reach around him to grab the crutches he'd been given.

As she did so, her arm brushed against his side. Heat jumped between them, making her nervous as well as crabby. She hated that he could get to her without doing anything but standing in the snow, looking pathetic.

She pulled out the crutches. "I'll need your key to open the door."

He dug it out of his sweatpants and handed it to her. She was careful to make sure they didn't touch again.

His progress to his front door was slow, hampered by five or six inches of fresh snow on the ground. More was promised midweek. Darcy tried to admire the beauty of the white world around them, the way the snow clung to the trees and decorated the duplex like so much icing, rather than feeling badly for Mark as he made slow and awkward progress.

Finally they were inside. Darcy got him settled on the sofa, which apart from a television sitting on a nightstand, was the only piece of furniture in the room. She set the crutches on the floor,
then
asked him where he kept his spare blankets.

"I don't have any. There's one on the bed."

"Figures."

She headed for the small hallway. His apartment was the mirror image of hers. At least the layout was. Nothing about the interior was the same. The walls looked as if they hadn't been painted in years. There weren't any pictures on the walls, and when she reached the bedroom, she saw he filled the room with a king-size bed, one nightstand and a tall dresser.
Nothing else.
Nothing personal.

Some of her anger began to fade in the face of his empty life. Why did Mark choose to live like this? Her apartment had been old when she'd moved in, but she'd painted the walls and dressed things up with inexpensive prints and knickknacks she'd brought from
Arizona
. She'd wanted to make a home for herself. Mark's place had all the charm of a prison. Did he expect to be moving on soon?