Hands On (11 page)

“Or this divine cream sauce, or this delightfully aged gouda with fresh crusty bread, or this—”

Harry knew when he was beaten. “Did you call their parents first? To get permission for them to stay for dinner.”

“Of course I talked to their parents first.” Her voice was haughty. “What kind of hostess do you take me for? I was down the street at the rental with Lara, and we walked around the neighborhood a bit to chat with people. They were out watching their kids play and they seemed pretty interested to hear I’m a puppeteer working out of your basement. I showed them the basement and my puppets—hope you don’t mind—and invited the kids to stay for a little show and some dinner. It’s too late now. Which is a shame, the kids were really hungry after the show and looking forward to dinner. But yes, of course I talked to the parents first.”

“And their parents were okay with it?”

Ginnie stared at him. “Any reason they shouldn’t be?”

“
No
.” Harry played with his empty scotch glass. “But they might not know that.” He took a deep breath and told her about the Christmas party incident. He didn’t tell her his real name, though. If she knew his name, he’d be vulnerable again. She could potentially use that knowledge against him, the way Jaye Rae had.

When he was finished, he held himself still. He realized he was holding his breath, and made himself breathe shallowly. How would Ginnie react? Would she be repelled? Part of him felt astonished at how much her regard had come to mean to him.

She shook her head slowly, aghast. “What a
bitch
. I mean, I already didn’t think much of her, but now… That’s just unreal. Did you press charges?”

Harry blinked. “Press charges?”

“Against her. What she did is libel. Or slander. Or something. It can’t be legal for her to get away with that.”

“She did, regrettably. A misleading photo ran in the newspapers. To fight against something like that, against indirect allegations, would’ve been to just give it fuel, and give her satisfaction. Unfortunately, people believed it. My friends. My business partners. My employees.”

“All of them did?”

“Enough of them.” Not all of them. Not even most of them, now that Harry considered it. Todd, especially, had been a staunch ally when he’d needed a friend. It had been humbling to see his newest employee so outraged on his behalf, so vocal in his support.

But still, the damage had been done.

“I’m not too hungry after all,” he said. He placed his glass in the sink.

She plucked it right up again and brushed against him on the way to the liquor cabinet. “Yes, you are.” She filled the glass just the way he’d filled hers, neat, and handed it over. “Drink.”

“Pushy little wench. No wonder they fired…” Harry bit his tongue, literally bit it. He hadn’t meant to say that. “I’m sorry,” he began, but when he saw her broad smile, he stopped, wondering at it. He wondered too how her lips would feel and whether her mouth would taste like scotch, or like Ginnie, or some exotic combination of the two. He was almost unbearably tempted to find out, he was so struck with that unexpected, happy, beautiful smile.

He took a gulp of scotch instead.

She nodded. He had the disconcerting idea she’d just read his mind. “Yeah, I can be a tiny bit pushy, sometimes. When it’s called for.” She tried to look stern, but couldn’t quite manage it. A potholder on one hand, a wooden spoon in the other, she prepared their plates of food. “I went back to them, Harry. To Helping Hands. I was thinking about what you’d said, about being practical and sensible and conservative. And I realized, if I took your advice about that, I’d be miserable.”

“It was good advice,” he protested.

“Yes, for a starting point. But it’s not how I want to set my career path.” She handed him a filled plate, as if to soften the blow. It worked. Harry led the way to the kitchen table. When was the last time he’d had a good home-cooked meal? He couldn’t remember.

“Anyway, I went to Helping Hands. But not to get my old job back. There are lots of minimum-wage and stipend positions for experienced, flexible freelance puppeteers. And man, do I have experience! I got them to subcontract me, for more than minimum wage. And I can use those gig contacts for independent shows, which is a few more hundred every month.” She looked at him expectantly. When he didn’t comment, she nodded. “I didn’t really expect you to understand how big a deal this is for me. I can grow a puppet theater career this way. Slowly put together a troupe, if I want. It’s not that much money, though. I mean, a landlord like you probably makes five or six times that.”

Harry choked on his filet. Five or six times? More like five or six hundred times. “I’m not just a landlord,” he finally said. “I run many businesses, primarily in a financial planning capacity.”

“That’s wonderful. How do you like it?” Ginnie forked steak and mushroom sauce into her mouth. Her eyes narrowed with pleasure. “Do you enjoy your work?”

“This is a wonderful steak dinner.” Harry avoided the other question. Harry had already nearly polished off his portion. “You should be a chef.”

“Thanks. But I should be a puppeteer. And I am!” Ginnie grinned. “The first show is day after tomorrow. The Frog Prince. Good thing it’s a marionette show so I can rehearse my parts on my own.”

“You’re happy.” Harry looked at her, wondering if he’d ever seen such a glow in a person. “You’re beautiful.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” Ginnie sipped her scotch as if it burned her tongue.

“Too strong?”

“Just strong enough,” she murmured, staring at him. “It’s just…overwhelming.”

Were they still talking about her puppet job? He felt the pull of her, tempting him to ignore his better instincts. He suddenly wanted, very badly, to sweep the tableware aside, rip off her clothes and demonstrate she had nothing to fear from a strong, in-control man. How easy it would be to relax his guard.

But he wasn’t the type of man to make the same mistake twice.

He noted her empty plate. “Done?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but instead pushed his chair back and stood. “That was a magnificent meal. You cooked, so I’ll clean.” He grabbed plates and silverware and headed to the sink.

“Wow, you do dishes? I think that’s so hot. Okay, what’s going on in your head now?”

He gave her a quelling look, but it had no effect. Instead, she carried pots and silverware to him. “Well?”

“Nothing.” She was cute, but a little bit of a slow learner, Harry thought. He simply didn’t do emotional touchy-feely stuff. When would she—

“It’s the kid issue, isn’t it.”

A plate slipped through his hands, cracking sharply in half when it hit the hard tile of his kitchen floor. “I don’t have issues,” he retorted, exasperated. He picked up the pieces—one, two, three, four, fivesixseven—and threw them away. “I’m perfectly happy,”

“Harry? You work all the time. Don’t you want more out of life? Friends? Family?”

“No. I like my life.” His voice sounded low and menacing to his own ears. He hoped she took the warning.

“You’re pretty young to decide you never want to have kids.”

“I don’t like kids.”

She looked at him as if he’d spoken in a foreign language. “It’s not the fault of kids that your ex acted like such a witch. They’re innocent. That poor little boy on your lap, he was just a pawn.”

“Stop.” Harry shut the dishwasher door with a little more force than necessary. “It’s not about that. I just don’t have time for kids. Or any use for them. At all. As I said, I like my life the way it is.”

“Okay.” Her voice was subdued. A flash of guilt went through him. Then, anger that she’d made him feel guilt. She was manipulating him. “I don’t need people pushing themselves into my life,” he said brutally.

“Maybe you don’t need it, but you want it,” she whispered.

Emotions hit him unexpectedly. Pain. Longing. But then he wrested back his control. He shoved the emotions into their little compartments where they belonged, and made himself count backward from twenty, slowly.

When he felt dispassionate again, he turned from her and strode from the kitchen.

Ginnie followed. He looked at the space slightly to the right of her as he threw on a raincoat. “Thank you for dinner. I need to go out.”

“Harry…”

“Good-bye.”

Ginnie flinched when Harry shut the front door behind him, so softly and slowly, yet firmly. A not-slam that really wanted to be a slam.

Dinner sat like a rock in her stomach. She shivered, unhappy. She’d pushed him too fast. Been too aggressive. Too controlling. Again. She’d driven him away.

Tears welled up in her eyes, making her vision a colorful prism of the stained glass inset above his door. Her heart ached.

“I’m an idiot,” she whispered.

He wasn’t completely free of idiocy, she knew. What kind of man ruled out kids completely based on one woman’s cruel vengeance? Still, Ginnie knew she’d been too intrusive and she owed Harry an apology. His sports car roared to life. Urgency flashed through her. He was leaving.

She flung open the front door, flew down the porch steps even as the red rear lights swam over her. “Harry! Wait!” She ran.

He never even turned his head. His tires spun for a moment, then bit. He sped away.

Ginnie stopped at the sidewalk. “Crap!” She wanted to say something stronger and louder, but there were kids in the neighborhood. She laughed, shaking her head. She could make her apologies later. He’d come back eventually.

Wouldn’t he?

As if in answer, she heard the rumble of a big engine, and a sports car turned onto the residential street. Ginnie raised her gaze, shielding her eyes from the bright headlights.

It wasn’t Harry’s sleek sports car.

The vehicle pulled over in front of Harry’s house. A gold-colored sport wagon with shiny wheels.

She stood, frozen, as Rick stepped out. “Ginnie.”

His familiar voice, slightly high and nasal, threw her back in time. Here was the man she’d lived with and loved, the man who’d sworn to care for her, but who’d ended up truly caring only for football games and himself.

“Here to steal more of my stuff?” Ginnie asked, remembering. Some of her theater supplies were still missing. She went to look inside the car.

“Hey.” Rick sidestepped into her path. “I owe you an apology and I’m here to deliver.”

She stared at him, waiting, but he added nothing else. “Rick, why did you walk on my roof, steal my things and then throw them in the street like trash?”

Thin, pale strands of his hair were plastered to his broad forehead. His round chin and sloping jawline, so clean-shaved and so unlike Harry’s cute cleft and persistent five-o’clock shadow, twitched with the old familiar tension. His lips turned down at the corners for a moment. He had the grace to look ashamed, at least. Then he chuckled wryly. “Babe, if you knew what you’ve put me through.”

She folded her arms.

“Ginnie, I know I’m not the most sensitive guy in the world, but you could’ve told me you were ready to walk. I had no idea.”

“I tried to tell you, over and over. You always got so angry…”

“You’re not exactly easy to live with, yourself. Your mother agrees.” Now he paced. “Always getting on my ass about how I need to do more of this or less of that or become Mr. Sensitive.”

“So that’s why you’re here? Revenge?” Ginnie looked around surreptitiously, but there wasn’t anyone currently walking their dogs on the sidewalk or enjoying the perfect Oregon twilight on their porches. She was alone.

“That’s what you think?” He looked pensive, then smiled. “You might be a little bit right. I was pretty pissed when you abandoned me.”

Ginnie inhaled sharply. Abandoned. Just like her father did to her and her mom. Had she hurt him that badly? “I’m sorry,” she began, but Rick just nodded and continued.

“I missed you, you know. So, I’ve been thinking. I realized I haven’t always tried very hard with us. I drove all the way up here again to tell you that. To help you move your stuff back in with me. Your house! Man, seeing it wrecked like that was a surprise. Guess I got lucky, huh?” Rick stared at her. “But your house being crunched isn’t the only surprise, eh? There was this woman inside your house when I came, punching a calculator and taking notes. She said you’d moved in with your landlord right up the street.”

Ginnie felt herself tense.

“I looked around for your car, and lo and behold, there it was parked where she’d said. And there was that heavy wooden trunk of yours, sitting on his porch. Didn’t waste any time, did you?” His eyes began to flash dangerously, the way they did right before he threw stuff and hit walls.

Or hit her. But that was only the once.

“So that’s why you decided to toss my property in the street?” Ginnie stared him down. The memory of his violence and the thought of her puppets discarded like garbage spurred her own anger.

“Yes, damn it!” Rick clutched his car keys so tightly she could see the white of his knuckles. Part of her wondered whether he’d throw the keys, maybe at his expensive sport wagon. Their arguments always ended violently. Never with physical violence against her, except for that once, but the threat of it poisoned something between them.

As if he were reading her mind, Rick bared his teeth in a small smile. “You always were a ball-buster.”

“You don’t need to worry about that anymore,” she shot back.

“You didn’t let me finish.” Rick glared at her. “I was gonna say, maybe sometimes I had it coming. Not always. But… I know I didn’t try very hard with you, and I should’ve.” He opened his hands, one thumb folded over his car keys. “I realized a lot of things after you left. Ginnie, let me take care of you, the way I meant to. Your rental house is trashed. You’re a charity case sponging off your landlord. There’s nothing here for you.”

A memory of Harry naked and straddled under her body flashed in her mind.

“Or…is there?” Rick tracked her thoughts. His voice turned sinister once more. “I was right, wasn’t I? You’re into someone else already. This landlord, it’s a guy, right? A full-service landlord, eh?”

“There’s nothing going on,” Ginnie said. And it was true, there wasn’t anymore.