Ninja Soccer Moms (2 page)

“Really? What program do you use now?”

He was making this too easy. “Peach Tree.”

“Yeah, that's good, but I like using the Excel worksheet. Here let me show you.” He turned in his chair and called up a computer program.

I leaned across his desk, getting a whiff of coffee and strong spearmint. Did he have a lifetime supply of Altoids in his desk drawer? I had to fight a twitching smile at the mental picture of Chad popping Altoids for that minty-fresh breath all bellowing coaches needed.

Or was it cheating coaches?

He turned his head. “Can you see from there? Come around and you can see better.”

I got up and looked down at my purse. The disk was in there. But first I had to get him to pull up the soccer program and think of a way to get him to leave for a few minutes. Up to now it had been easier than I expected. Luck like that wouldn't hold for long. Leaving my purse on the floor, I walked around the desk and leaned over Chad's right shoulder.

“See, here's the program.” He opened files and described the functions.

I only half listened while my mind spun. How could I get him to open the soccer books?
Think!
“Chad, can you keep accounts for two businesses on there? I mean like say your insurance business, then another enterprise of some sort?”

He leaned back to look at me, accidentally brushing his face against my breasts.

Resisting the urge to jump back, I forced myself to smile at him. I don't remember Chad ever being this aggressively carnal. Guess I didn't measure up to his copa-feel standards back in my team mom days.

“Sure, I use the same program to keep the SCOLE books.”

Bingo! “You do? Could I see that?”

He closed the files for his insurance records and opened the one for SCOLE while chatting away. “You know Sam, it might be fun for the two of us to go out to dinner sometime. Or maybe have drinks at Don Jose's. Hey, after dinner I could show you my new digital camera. We could do some test shots and I'll show you how it works . . . for your dating service. Or we could use my new camcorder. I even know how to download videos to the computer.”

And I bet you'd bring your spearmint Altoids or whatever was seeping out from his desk. “I thought you were dating—” I couldn't think of her name. I could picture her—the soccer mom slut. Every team had one. The mom that came to every practice in short shorts and tank tops and schmoozed with the coach while the other moms sat in a lawn-chair circle and chatted. This one had succeeded in getting the coach away from his wife. What was her name? She had a belly-button ring, which was too daring even for me. “Dara.” That was her name.

His neck turned red. “Sure we date, but it's not exclusive or anything. Janie told some pretty ugly lies about Dara and me. Ah, here's the files for SCOLE.” They opened up on the screen.

Lies, my ass. But I had a job to do here. And I was going to need money to promote Heart Mates and pay my bills. Then there was Blaine's salary. Plus, I really wanted to help Janie get a little revenge. “Yes, I see. You're very good at this stuff. Did you take classes? Go to college?”

His shoulders puffed up. “I taught myself. I can teach you how to do this, Sam.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.
I knew for a fact that Janie took night classes to learn about bookkeeping and this program when she had been the treasurer. She taught Chad. “That's awfully nice of you, Chad.” I leaned closer, brushing against his shoulder to study the files while I tried to think of how to get him out of the office for a few minutes. Or at least in the back. I saw his cup of coffee sitting on his blotter. “You know, maybe I will have something to drink.”

He tilted his head back. “Coffee?”

There was a doughnut shop across the parking lot. “Actually, I'd love some hot chocolate.” Would he be dumb enough to run to the doughnut shop and get me hot chocolate?

“I have hot chocolate in the back. Won't take a minute to nuke some water and make it for you.” He reached toward the keyboard.

I laid my hand on his bare forearm.

His gaze snapped up to mine.

“Could I look at this while you make the hot chocolate?” Would that give me enough time?

“Sure. Look all you want and I'll explain how to use the software when I come back.” He got up from the chair.

There wasn't much room inside the three-sided desk. I backed up to the credenza. Chad brushed so close to me that his spicy cologne mixed with my passion fruit lotion.

“It sure is nice to see you again, Sam. We've missed you in the soccer circles.” His gaze dropped down to my breasts. “You're looking good these days. Real good.”

I wanted to throw a drool cloth over my bust. It was a struggle to arrange my face into a simpering expression. “Uh, yeah, you too, Chad.”

His grin radiated self-assurance as he reached up to touch my hair. “So is it true, do blondes really have more fun?”

I hear better lines at my dating service. “They get more thirsty,” I said pointedly, to get him to leave.

He turned and headed around the desk.

Relief spread through me, but I had no time to enjoy it. Once Chad disappeared around the partition, I raced to my purse, dug out the disk and went back to the computer. I would make a copy of the SCOLE books and then leave before Chad got back out with the hot chocolate. I'd claim I got a call on my cell phone, or another excuse. Jamming the disk into the proper-sized hole, I guided the mouse through the clicks to save the file to the ‘A' drive.

The computer groaned and hissed. A little rectangle graph popped up, slowly filling with blue as it saved to the disk.

The blue stretched to the quarter mark. “Come on,” I begged. From the back, I heard a short slam, like a microwave door, then beeps as Chad set the timer to heat water for the hot chocolate.

The graph hit the halfway mark. I squirmed on the chair. “Faster.”

“Hey Sam, did I tell you that Mark made JV on the soccer team at school?” Chad's loud voice carried over the room divider.

Three-quarters done.
The microwave beeped and I heard the microwave door pulled open.
Answer him!
“That's terrific, Chad. Mark's a great kid and a talented soccer player.” Almost there. The blue stripe hovered only a millimeter away from the finish line.

Clinks and other sounds came from the back, followed by Chad's voice. “I really think he'll get a college scholarship. I've hired him a private soccer coach.”

The blue line filled up the rectangle.
Done!
I yanked the disk out and heard more movement from the back. Was Chad coming out? Damn, no time to get to my purse. I whirled around to the credenza and the slim disk flew out of my fingers. It clattered against the glass front of a team picture then landed on the credenza behind the fax machine.

Heat burned up my face and prickled under my arms. I heard Chad moving around, so he must still be doing something in the kitchen. I had seconds. I leaned over a machine to reach behind the fax and get the disk.

Just as my fingers closed around the disk I heard the whirring of a machine starting up.

Freezing, I thought,
What the hell was that?
But I had no time to worry about it. I shoved the disk into the built in bra of my black camisole. I had to get out of here.

But that noise kept going. A grinding. Suddenly I realized I was being pulled down.

The paper shredder! Ohmigod, the tied shirttails of my white top were caught in the shredder! The machine was eating my shirt! Full-blown panic blossomed into fight-or-flight. I grabbed the knot in my shirt and yanked.

The shredder wouldn't let go. It was set flush into the credenza and kept pulling me forward. Cripes, now what?

Wait, there had to be a cut-off switch. I leaned forward, looking around the face of the machine. I couldn't find a switch. And worse, the plastic disk in my bra was slipping.

The grinding noise began to sputter in anger. The knot! The shredder was sucking in the tied lump, fraction by fraction, separating it and consuming it. I had to get out of the shirt or the machine was going to yank me down into its grinding blades.

“Sam! What . . .”

I turned my head to see Chad materialize next to me, holding a can of whipped cream and looking confused. “It attacked me!”

His face cleared. “Hold on,” he said, then crouched down and put a hand on my leg to move me over. He opened a cupboard door and reached inside.

The machine stopped.

I let out a huge breath in relief and did a little test tug on my shirt.

The silent shredder held on tight. I could see tears running up from the mangled knot like runs in a pair of pantyhose. The disk slipped a fraction more in my bra. I blinked and hysterical laughter tickled my throat. Oh yeah, some slick private investigator I was—exposed by a paper shredder!

Hmm, and I appeared to have a stray hand wandering up my thigh. I glared down at Chad, crouched by the cupboards, and asked, “Could you help me here? I need scissors.” I was going to have to cut away the blouse. Then I might cut off his thigh-exploring hand.

Chad took his hand off my thigh and rolled up to his feet, still holding the can of whipped cream. He stepped out of my view. From the rummaging sound, I guessed he'd opened the drawer to his desk behind me and was looking for scissors. Returning to my side, he set the can of whipped cream down by the shredder. “Hold still and I'll cut you free.” He moved behind me.

“Give me the scissors, I'll do it.”

Chad put both arms around me. “Better let me do it, Sam,” he said into my ear. “You got yourself into quite a fix here.”

Considering the slipping disk in my bra and his position behind me with his chin over my left shoulder, I had to silently agree.

Chad maneuvered his hands so that his forearms brushed the undersides of my breasts while he positioned the scissors on the fraying shirt. “Little hard to see over your rack. Nice work, by the way. Love your new look.”

Jeez! I needed a shower, and Chad Tuggle needed a soccer ball hard-kicked into his groin. Some men had the idea that because a woman did a little self-improvement, she was suddenly a warm, breathing sex toy to be handled at will. “Cut me free, Chad.” My anger sliced my voice into a breathless quiver that probably had Chad thinking I was hot for him.

He cut me free, leaving my shirt hanging in shreds around my rib cage.

I turned around and looked up into his green eyes.

“Don't I get a thank-you kiss?”

Well, I had to give him credit. He could have said a thank-you grope. “Sure, Chad. Close your eyes.”

He closed his eyes. His breathing accelerated and he actually licked his lips, leaving his mouth open.

I snapped up the can of whipped cream and depressed the plunger, filling him up like a soft-serve cone. God, it felt good. Revenge for Janie, and payback for groping me.

Sputtering and spewing whipped cream, he opened his eyes and wiped a handful of whipped cream off his face. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What the hell are
both
of you doing?”

I looked over to see Chad's girlfriend, Dara, standing stone-still in the doorway. Her straight, choppy auburn hair framed a tightly drawn mouth and flared nostrils. The little zip-up sweatshirt she forgot to wear a shirt under didn't cover the glittering gold belly-button ring winking above the waist of her hip-hugging pants. I saw Dara's huge blue-gray gaze move over my shredded shirt, then shift to Chad's whipped cream–filled face. “Dara—” I used my calm mom voice as I edged toward the door, meaning to say something inane about old friends.

But the virulent hate I saw burning in her blue-gray eyes snuffed out my words. I slipped by her and made my escape, leaving Chad to deal with Dara.

H
urrying from Chad's office to my car, I thought that Dara Reed might need some anger management classes. Getting into the T-bird, I glanced over to Chad's office but didn't see Chad or Dara through the glass front. Chad had probably gone into the kitchenette to wash off the whipped cream. I rescued the disk from my camisole bra and tucked it into my purse. Then I started up the car and headed back to my office. I wanted to check the disk before I called Janie.

When I got to work, Blaine glanced up at me as he talked into the phone, then jerked his gaze back to me. After saying a quick goodbye, he put the phone down and said, “What happened to you?”

“I got caught in a paper shredder.” I rummaged in my purse and fished out the disk. “Pop this into your computer and let's see what's on it.” I held the disk out over his desk.

“Paper shredder, huh?” He took the disk, then bent down and put it in his hard drive. “Probably a good thing we don't have a paper shredder here.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ha ha. What do you see on the disk?”
Please don't let me have screwed this up. Not after all that.

“Files. Looks like—” he began clicking things open, “—yep, looks like you got the files for soccer. There's Fees Paid, Expenses—all the usual boring stuff.”

Smiling, I went to the coffeemaker on the TV tray at the end of Blaine's desk and filled my heart-stamped mug. “I've had a productive morning, even if I did ruin my shirt.” Dang, maybe I was better at private investigating than I thought. Now if Janie and I could find proof that Chad was embezzling, I'd talk to Gabe to clear everything under his PI license, and then we could go to the police. Once Janie paid me, I could put some money into Heart Mates. I needed a really good promotion idea.

“Your hair looks sticky.”

“What do you mean, sticky?” Setting my filled cup down on the brown TV tray, I reached up to my shoulder-length hair. “Ugh.” It did feel sticky. Not the tame-the-frizziness-gels sticky but whipped-cream sticky. Thick chunks of my curly hair had clumped together. “Blowback.”

“Sounds dirty.”

I glared at Blaine. “From the whipped cream I shot at Chad.”

Blaine leaned back in his chair. “You're crossing the line into kinky, boss.”

“I could fire you.”

Blaine glanced out the window, then back to me. “Who'd take care of your T?”

He had me there. Blaine loved my T-bird. I was pretty sure he could get another mechanic job if he wanted to, but he stuck it out with me at Heart Mates. Together, we were going to build Heart Mates into a chain. I'd be the Jenny Craig of dating services.

Except I'd never use Monica Lewinski as a spokesperson. Although, I have to admit, she'd attract attention, which would be promotion for Heart Mates. Give her a cigar and . . .
Good God, what was I thinking?
Trying to assume a professional tone of voice, I said, “Any clients call while I was gone?”

“Roxanne Gabor. She sounded upset. I put her file on your desk.”

I sighed. “She had a date last night. I guess it didn't go well. I'll call her back. Anyone else call?”

Blaine grinned. “Your mother.”

A sharp pain stabbed at my temple. “Did she say what she wanted?”

Blaine leaned over to his hard drive, popped out the disk, and handed it to me. Then he picked up a message slip and read, “Tell Samantha to keep the last week of January open.” He looked up. “And I am to clear your schedule here at Heart Mates. I believe you will be taking a trip, but your mother didn't share the details with me.”

Wavy lines appeared in front of my eyes to accompany the stabbing in my temple. We were in early January now. “She's up to something. Something real estate-ish.” My mother was the Real Estate Queen of Lake Elsinore and the surrounding areas. I hated real estate, but my mother determinedly ignored that little detail and schemed to pull me out of the dating service business into the more respectable real estate profession.

A shiver rolled down my spine. No way was I going to let my mother kidnap me for a week of God-knows-what kind of real estate torture. “I might have to leave town.”

“The boys are in school.”

I took a deep breath. “Right, TJ and Joel hate missing school. Well, then, all I have to do is avoid my mother for the next three weeks or so.”

“That's what I admire about you, Sam. You don't let anything scare you.”

I picked up my coffee cup and took a sip. “I choose my battles, and choosing to battle with my mother is just plain stupid. But feel free to pick a fight with her anytime you want. You'll end up owning a house that should have been condemned, but you go right ahead.” I turned to go into my office, hoping to find another shirt tucked away in one of my desk drawers. I didn't know what I could do about my hair.

Shutting the door to my cubicle, I spotted Roxy's file on my desk. I sat down in my chair and leaned over to put my purse in the bottom left drawer of my desk. Darn, no spare shirt or jacket in there. I started looking through the remaining drawers when I heard the front door open out in the reception area.

A client? It wouldn't do for me to meet a client looking like a sticky, shredded mess. I shut the last drawer and frantically looked around the office, hoping Blaine would stall whoever it was.

“Go on, she's in her office.”

I was going to kill Blaine. I didn't hear the newcomer's voice, so Blaine obviously recognized whoever it was. If it was my mother . . . I stared at the door as it opened.

Gabe Pulizzi filled the doorway. Over six feet tall and packing two hundred pounds of pure muscle. “Gabe! What are you doing here?” I stood up, my pulse going from passive to red-hot lust at the sight of him.

Gabe lifted a single dark, winged eyebrow over his nearly black eyes. “Having a rough day?”

Naturally, he looked good. Damn good. Tan pants and a black shirt outlined his athletic frame. Gabe never looked like he lost a battle with a shredder and a can of whipped cream. “I . . . uhh . . . What brings you here?” My relationship with Gabe was complicated.

Sex tended to complicate things.

Gabe grinned. “I brought a surprise for you.”

Cool. Although I could never tell with Gabe. His last surprise had been showing up naked while I was in the bathtub. That had been a good surprise. I leaned toward him. “What is it?” Sexy thoughts swirled in my brain—thoughts of an early lunch at Gabe's house, preferably naked.

He took a step into my office and then turned to one side. “I brought my mom to meet you. We're taking you to lunch.”

“What?” It came out as a shriek. His mother? The phone on my desk rang, but I ignored it to stare at the woman in my office doorway. She had beautiful olive skin and dark eyes that resembled Gabe's intense gaze. A little taller than me, her weight had settled into her middle like an apple shape, but she had on pretty soft green pants and a flowing top that flattered her.

Damn, my sexy lunch scenario hadn't included his mother.
God, his mother!

Realizing my reaction was a little rude, I tried to pull myself together. “I mean, how wonderful! I am really surprised!” And absolutely mortified to meet his mother dressed like a middle-aged Britney Spears with whipped-cream hair gel. I wished for my stun gun so that I could stun some sense into a certain Italian stud standing in my office right now.

Blaine yelled over the cubicle wall, “Boss! Line one for you! Says it's urgent.”

“Thanks.” I said, grateful for the interruption. “Excuse me.” Nodding to Gabe's mom, whose name I still didn't know, I picked up the phone. With a clipped, professional tone, I said, “Samantha Shaw, how may I help you?”

“Sam!”

I pulled the phone away from my ear, then returned it. “Chad?” Uh-oh. Did he know I copied the soccer books?

“Hey, listen, Sam. Things got a little confusing here and you left before we could finish up our business. How about having dinner with me tonight?”

My head felt like someone pulled open my skull and poured in hot needles. “Sorry, I'm busy.”

“Oh. Well then, why don't I come by your house, say around eight? I'll bring dessert.
A whipped cream dessert.”

This wasn't happening. I glanced at Gabe, then looked at his mother.
His mother!
This is how Gabe introduces me to his mother? Badass PI or not, I was going to clobber him. “Listen, Chad, now's not a good time for me. I have to go.”

“Right. Then I'll be over to your house tonight at eight.”

“No!” I closed my eyes and rubbed the burning throb between my eyebrows. Some of those hot needles were trying to burrow their way out of my skull.

“Ah, come on, Sam. You know you want me to come over.”

I slammed the phone down.

“Babe, you seem a little stressed.”

No shit.
I ignored Gabe. However dumb he was probably wasn't his mother's fault. Nothing I could do now but brazen this situation out. Moving around my desk, I went past Gabe and held my hand out to his mother. “It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm sorry about the circumstances. I've had a . . .” I looked into her dark eyes, then noticed her smile. “. . . I'd like to say unusual morning. But it's pretty typical for me.”

Gabe's mom took my hand in both of hers. “I'm Iris, and my son is an imbecile. I told him so on the way over here.” She nodded her head, her grip firm on my hand.

I liked her already. Her warm, dry hand felt strong and confident. She smelled like green apples. How could I not like a woman that smelled like green apples? “He's a man. They're all imbeciles.”

“So we'll go to lunch? And you'll tell me about your typical day that leaves your clothes in shreds?”

“Why not?” I stripped off the shredded white shirt, and then looked down at my calf-high suede boots, short black skirt and barely-there black camisole. Without the white shirt, I had crossed over from hip dating executive to aging biker chick. Just the look I had hoped to impress my boyfriend's mother with. I threw the ruined shirt on my desk. God, I wished for a nice tailored jacket. And Tylenol. Forcing a smile, I opened my mouth to say I was ready when I heard the front door open out in the reception area, then a woman crying.

“Excuse me.” I slipped between Gabe and his mom and stepped out to the reception area. I recognized the crying woman. “Roxy?”

She lifted her head, her side-parted dark blond hair falling into sleek straight lines around her full face. Her red-rimmed, puffy eyes stood out, marring her natural beauty. “Oh Sam! It's just awful. I . . .”

She must have caught sight of Gabe and his mother behind me. Her face froze.

“Roxy.” I put my arm around her shoulders. Roxanne had five or six inches and fifty or so pounds on me. But she was like a child and let me guide her past Blaine toward the interview room. “Why don't you go sit inside there and I'll bring us some coffee.” I reached out and opened the door to the sound proofed room. “I have to finish up some business and I'll be right in.”

She walked in and headed for the oak table where I liked to interview clients. I pulled the door shut and turned around.

Gabe and his mother. God, this was some day. “Uh, look, I'm sorry about lunch, but I have to talk to Roxy.”

Iris stared at the closed door. “That poor girl—isn't she that new model? The full-sized one that I've seen on the morning shows?”

I should have known Gabe's mom would be as observant as her son was. Fixing an overused smile on my face, I said, “Maybe we can do lunch tomorrow if you are still here?”

Iris smiled at me. “Don't you worry a bit about us. You just go find out what's wrong with your client. You have important work to do.” She turned and started walking out the door, then looked back. “Come on, Gabe.”

I stared at her retreating back. My experience with mothers, my mother in particular, told me that was too easy. What was Gabe's mother up to?

“Babe.”

Gabe stepped up to stand an inch from me. I looked up into his dark eyes under winged brows. “I could smack you.”

His mouth quirked up. “Yeah?”

“Stop that,” I whispered, knowing full well that Blaine sat four feet away listening to every word. “I can't believe you dropped your mother on me like that!”

“I thought you'd want to meet her.” He arched a single eyebrow. I'd only seen him use that look on me. It usually meant,
What the hell are you talking about?
Or,
what the hell have you done now?

“Right. Every woman wants to meet her boyfriend's mother looking like a biker chick.”

A lazy grin rolled over his face.

“Go away. Just go away.” I could not believe he didn't get it.

He reached out, cupping his large hands around my bare shoulders. “Why don't we change the subject and you tell me what that phone call in your office was about?”

Every once in a while, I underestimated Gabe Pulizzi. He'd been a street cop in Los Angeles until a couple of bank robbers decided to start shooting citizens and Gabe caught a bullet in his knee. He'd retired and moved out to Lake Elsinore, opening Pulizzi's Security and Investigating Services. Gabe moved in a dangerous world with the ease of James Bond.

I sort of tumbled into trouble going grocery shopping.

I should have known that Gabe caught every word I said to Chad on the phone in my office. His radar told him something was going on. “That was Chad Tuggle. His ex-wife asked me to check into something so I went to his office today. He apparently got the wrong idea.”