Her Special Charm (5 page)

“I wasn't expecting company,” he grumbled under his breath.

Constance made no effort to disguise her amusement as she glanced around. The place looked like a hurricane had gone through it—and was threatening a return match at any moment.

“Apparently.” She glanced back at him. “I guess you're one of those people who likes to have everything within easy reach.”

“Something like that,” he mumbled under his breath. He never had anyone over, even though Santini had hinted several times for an invitation. With only Stanley for company, he had no reason to go out of his way to clean when he didn't feel like it. He didn't like being invaded and he could feel his irritation growing rapidly. “Look, how did you know where to find me?”

It wasn't as if his address was a matter of public record. He wasn't listed anywhere outside of a few official forms filed with the department, which was the way he liked it.

“I grew up calling the police chief Uncle Bob. He's not really my uncle,” she explained, not wanting to mis
lead him, “but he was a close personal friend of my parents. I don't know what my mother would have done if he hadn't stepped in after my father died.” She smiled at him as if she were talking to an old friend. “Contrary to some beliefs, not every Southern lady is actually an iron butterfly in disguise. Mama always needed someone to lean on. Uncle Bob had broad shoulders.”

There was only one part of this narrative that interested him. As far as he knew, Robert Wheeler didn't come into the precinct anymore. “He's retired.”

“Not from life.” Besides, the man was living proof of the old saying, once a cop, always a cop. He still took an active interest in some of the larger cases, as well as fronting public relations for the department. “He still has friends in the department. I told him that you had found Mama's cameo.”

She'd actually called him, asking the former chief of police if he could find out where James Munro lived since she sensed that a repeat appearance at the precinct would only embarrass James.

“He knew how much that piece meant to my mother and that I wouldn't rest until I found a way to show you how grateful I was that you took the time to put that ad in.” Her eyes seemed to shine as she relayed her story. “A lot of people would have just pocketed it.”

He noticed that she was still wearing the cameo. The black ribbon accented her slender neck. He found it difficult to look away. For his own safety, he figured he had better find a way. “Yeah, well, I'm not a lot of people.”

“No, just one really nice man.”

He was about to deny having anything to do with the word
nice
when it suddenly occurred to him that Stanley wasn't growling. The dog was his animal equivalent, taking to no one, tolerating the people around him at best—as long as they didn't invade his space.

But Stanley's space had very clearly been invaded, same as his, and instead of barking or growling, his faithful guard dog was delicately sniffing her legs and damn if the dog wasn't presenting his head to her to be petted again.

It was positively spooky. He looked at her. “You some kind of gypsy?”

She laughed. “No, just an animal lover.” Forgoing, for the moment, dividing up the dinner she'd brought, Constance knelt down, unmindful of the fact that any contact with a German shepherd in the summer guaranteed her her own fur coat. “You're a handsome one, you are.”

Stanley looked as if he were eating up every word. And wanted more. He curled into her hand, indicating that he wanted to be petted some more.

Still on her knees, she glanced over toward James. “I'm sorry, I forgot you had a dog, otherwise I would have brought more. But I'd be happy to share my meal with him.”

James began to move over toward her to take her hand and help her up, but she effortlessly gained her feet before he could reach her. Just as well, he thought. The less physical contact, the better. Not to mention the fact that he didn't even want to know how she'd learned he had a pet.

A couple of steps had her out of the living room and in the kitchen. The clutter here wasn't any less than in the other room. There were dishes on the counter, dishes in the sink.

“Where do you keep your plates?”

He frowned, coming up behind her. “You're looking at them.”

Which meant that he had no clean ones, she thought. “No problem.” Before he could say anything to stop her, she was opening the cabinet beneath the sink and looking in. She found an almost empty bottle of dishwashing liquid and held it aloft like a prize. “I can just wash off three plates and we're set to go.”

“Look, lady—”

The water was already running into the sink and she was squirting what was left in the detergent bottle into the steady stream.

“Constance,” she corrected amiably. “Connie if you like.”

What he would have liked right now was to find a way to get this woman, who was making herself more at home here than he ever had, out of his apartment.

He was also beginning to feel that the odds of that happening in the next few minutes were pretty much against him.

J
ames leaned back against the counter, watching the one-woman invasion army as she quickly washed the glasses and dishes needed for the dinner she'd brought. Inexplicably, she'd made herself at home and seemed comfortable, not only within the space she had commandeered but around him as well.

Which was more than he could say. He didn't feel comfortable around her at all. But then, he had no real frame of reference to fall back on, no successful relationship to look to. His own relationship had certainly been no winner.

Growing up, he'd watched his parents argue constantly, belittling and emotionally abandoning each
other at every opportunity. Try as he might, he couldn't recall a single kind word being spoken between his parents. Maybe there had been, but by then he'd done his best to shut out all the words. To shut out his parents. Silence was preferable to hoping for something better.

The one time he'd attempted to fly in the face of experience, he'd gotten badly burned. Janice, the woman he'd thought might help him limp past his emotional scars to a better place, had had baggage of her own that she'd brought to their marriage. Eventually, she'd packed it up—and their daughter Dana—and had left him. Which was only fitting because she'd left him a long time before she physically walked away.

Not that he blamed her. He was no prize. He knew that. Which was why he'd taken himself out of the store-front window and into the storeroom, resigned to making the best of what there was.

Until this woman had opened the storeroom door and begun rummaging around.

Like she was rummaging now through his cupboards.

He moved forward into the small space that comprised his galley kitchen. Stanley was right behind him, like a four-footed cheering section. He wasn't sure exactly what Stanley was cheering on.

She was standing on her toes and cocking her head to the side, trying to see into the back of his shelves. “What are you looking for?”

Constance looked over her shoulder at him, her blue eyes doing a number on his defenses. “Napkins?” She
said the word hopefully, as if she wasn't quite sure if he understood what she meant.

“Don't have any.” He nodded toward the paper-towel rack on the counter next to the sink. “Use those instead. Same function.”

A man would think like that, she mused. “Only if you plan on being super messy.” She did, however, pull two squares of paper off the roll. She found herself looking at the naked brown roll, then raising her eyes to his. “You're out of paper towels.”

He met the news with a half shrug. “Not the end of the world.”

“No,” she agreed, “it's not. You can always use a kitchen towel in a pinch.”

She looked around the cluttered counters on either side of the sink and then turned to look at the counter behind her. What she was looking for wasn't there and she'd already surveyed the inside of the cabinets.

“You don't have kitchen towels, do you?”

He chafed a little at the assumption, even though it was correct. “Are you with some national survey or the kitchen police?”

She laughed, then realized that he wasn't really making a joke; he was clearly irritated. Constance paused for a second, studying him. Most people she interacted with were friendly. If they weren't to begin with, she liked to think they became that way after a few minutes with her.

It was obvious that she was having the reverse effect on the very man she wanted to display her gratitude toward. “Are you always this touchy?”

“Only when I'm being invaded.”

She turned from the sink, leaning her back against it and gazed up at him. Suddenly the small space felt smaller. It didn't help to have Stanley crowded against the back of his legs.

“This isn't an invasion, James. This is just my way of saying thank you.”

He couldn't shift without calling attention to the fact that he found her closeness distracting. So he stood his ground, but not as easily as he would have liked. “A greeting card would have accomplished that.”

A teasing smile began in her eyes. She turned back toward the sink, shaking off the moisture from her hands. “You would have never opened the envelope to read it.” Constance looked over her shoulder as if to punctuate her statement.

His eyes met hers. He didn't like being that easily read by someone.

James swallowed a ripe curse as he reached into what was supposed to be the pantry. Boxes and jars had been thrown in there haphazardly. These items only saw the light of day when he was trying to find something. Usually unsuccessfully.

This time, though, he succeeded. The last paper towel roll from the three-pack he'd bought lay horizontally over boxes of spaghetti, jars of sauce and a myriad of not so easily identifiable purchases. Every box had some form of the word
instant
printed on it somewhere.

To James, something really wasn't “instant” unless
it jumped out of the box on its own, fully prepared and ready to consume, and sat itself down on his counter.

“Here,” he growled as he pulled off the remaining plastic that clung to the fresh roll and handed the latter to Constance. “You don't have to try to drip-dry over the sink.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, then grinned as she delicately wiped her hands, then threw the paper towel into the garbage pail beneath the sink. “See, that wasn't hard, was it?”

“Don't push your luck, lady.” He looked at the counter. Constance had set out three plates. She wasn't planning on having someone else come over, was she? “Why three?”

“One for you, one for me and one for your dog.” She nodded at Stanley who was still playing her shadow. “I'm separating some of my portion for him. Ordinarily, I'd ask if you minded the dog eating off a plate, but I don't think that question really applies, here…” Her voice, echoing with amusement, trailed off as she glanced over her shoulder at the dishes that still needed to be washed. “Besides, James, you don't really strike me as the dog-food type.”

Every time she said his name, it sounded like a melody on her lips. He found himself struggling to shake off the almost hypnotic effect.

“Never touch the stuff.”

She laughed in response. It bothered him that he warmed to it, as if he'd performed some kind of trick for her benefit.

“I meant that I didn't see you preparing something special for your dog when you might be eating a perfectly good hamburger. You'd just share it with him.”

She was right again. The woman was getting to be positively eerie.

She raised her eyes to his and knew exactly what he was thinking. She tried to put him at ease. It wouldn't do to have him spooked. Her gift made some people nervous until they got to know her.

“You've got a little ketchup on your shirt,” she explained. “Dried so that I know it didn't come from anything you might have had just before you went out on your evening jog.”

The explanation was for his benefit. She hadn't really analyzed it that far. She didn't have to. She had a touch of what her father's mother had liked to call “the sight.” Her father's people had originally come from Louisiana and, although no one really talked about it, there had been some dabbling in the black arts by a few distant branches on the family tree.

Whether or not that had anything to do with it, she didn't know. But she'd been aware since the age of four that she'd always had a way of knowing things, sensing some things before they happened.

But her ability wasn't self-preserving. The things she knew involved other people, not herself. Which was why she'd wound up being duped by a man she'd fallen in love with. Or believed she had.

In her defense, Josh had been good. Very good at deception. And she still wanted to believe that at least a
part of him had had feelings for her. But his main mistress was, and always would be, money and he'd seen a way of extending his love affair by using her. He'd swept her off her feet and would have swept her off into a marriage bed if an underlying nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right hadn't alerted her. A nagging feeling that had refused to abate until she'd finally had his dealings with her mother's funds investigated. Both before and after her mother's death.

When she'd discovered that he had been helping himself to generous portions of her mother's money, rerouting it into his own bank account for “future investment,” she'd been horrified. Not to mention heart-broken. Rallying, she'd threatened Josh with legal action, knowing full well that she'd never get the money back.

He'd tried to talk her out of it, tried to undermine her determination with words of endearment, but she'd held firm. In the end, he'd cursed at her. It was the last she saw of him.

Except in her dreams.

Dreams that mocked her about her poor choice. Dreams that made her feel as if she still, despite everything, had feelings for him.

Or maybe she just didn't like the thought of being alone, she told herself.

She didn't have to be, of course. There were all those friends of her mother's to turn to if she needed anything. And her mother had left her a sizable fortune, so she was free to do whatever she wanted with her time.

She chose to work because she enjoyed it. Enjoyed being around children. Enjoyed being part of their awakening process as they opened their eyes to the world with its massive information and even greater possibilities.

“You don't have to do that, you know,” James told her. “Feed him,” he clarified. Stanley was once again checking her out, sniffing the bottom of her skirt. “I can just have him wait in the bedroom if he makes you uncomfortable.”

“I'm not uncomfortable around your dog, James.” He'd already cautioned her once about not being afraid. Did the dog have a Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde kind of personality and chew on unsuspecting people? “Whatever gave you that idea? I love dogs.”

Stanley had managed to weave his way between them and was now beside Constance, nudging at her legs. Checking her out and obviously liking what he discovered.

James frowned. The dog hadn't barked once at this Southern ball of fire. Had done nothing but trot after her with almost a smitten expression on his muzzle.

What the hell had gotten into his dog? It was almost as if she'd bewitched him.

“He seems to like you,” he said grudgingly.

“The feeling is mutual.” She addressed her words to both man and beast. Her smile, however, was meant for Stanley. “Seeing your dog just reminds me how much I miss having a pet around.” She looked up at James, giving him an explanation even though he hadn't asked. “Whiskey died a little over eight months ago.” She'd
taken the dog's death very hard. It had come just after her breakup with Josh and it had made her feel twice as alone.

James looked at her, puzzled. “Whiskey?”

“My Labrador retriever. Her coat was the color of whiskey when the sun hits it.”

“Right.”

She wondered if this tall, handsome police detective possessed any imagination at all. “I'm still trying to work up my courage.”

“Courage?” It was like having a conversation with a jigsaw puzzle. He braced himself, not knowing what was about to come next. “To do what?”

“To risk my heart again.” She ran her hands along Stanley's coat again. If the damn dog was a cat, he would have been purring by now, James thought. “It's very hard, getting attached, knowing that things might end…”

Something in her voice caught his attention. He asked the question before he could think better of it and stop himself. “We still talking about your pet?”

Constance smiled. Maybe he did have some imagination after all. She unzipped the thermal carrier and began to divide up the food she had brought. “I can see you're a very good detective. In part.”

Which meant, she was telling him, that he was half-wrong. He felt his curiosity aroused. “And in part?”

She looked down at her hand. It still felt funny looking at it and not seeing the diamond there that had rivaled the state of Texas. It had been Josh's investment in his future. One that she'd given back to him.

“I didn't come here to bore you with talk about me.”

James had a feeling that it wouldn't be nearly as boring as she maintained. And it beat the hell out of delving into his life, which he sensed she was far more inclined to do.

“Well, we're not going to talk about me,” he informed her.

“Fair enough. Then let's just eat.”

Bending down, Constance placed the first dish she'd prepared in front of Stanley. The dog lost no time in sniffing at the offering. The investigation lasted all of one minute before he began wolfing the food down. Constance took the remaining two plates and placed them on the counter. She slid onto one of the two stools that were flush against the other side of his kitchen counter. James couldn't help noticing the way her skirt rose up on her legs as she did so.

His dog and his uninvited guest were both eating. There was nothing left for him to do but sit down on the other stool. As he did so, he looked down at the plate and, for the first time, realized that she'd brought dolmadakia, which were stuffed grape leaves, spanakopita, a kind of spinach-and-cheese pie, and keftedes, meatballs made with mincemeat, onions and bread. Greek cuisine. He was partial to Greek food, despite the fact that he had met his ex-wife in a Greek restaurant. She'd been the waitress who had taken his order.

He nudged the serving on his plate with his fork. “Dolmadakia,” he murmured.

Constance raised her eyes to his, her mouth curving in a soft smile. “Yes, I know.”

“Greek,” he said needlessly.

Truly a man of few words, she thought as she nodded in reply. “Uh-huh.”

A hint of suspicion entered his eyes. “Santini tell you I liked Greek food?”

Her expression was the soul of innocence. “The subject never came up.”