Not the Marrying Kind (Destiny Bay Romances - Forever Yours) (18 page)

She answered his smile reluctantly. “I don't think I'd be surprised at all. But...” She slipped back down into the chair. “Let me tell you why I'm asking. You see, I ran into Michael last weekend in Newport. He was—on assignment, if you know what I mean. And we kind of—ended up together.”

How much could she really tell him? Not the details of the case Michael was on. But he knew what Michael did for a living.

“When I left him, he was going to some sort of showdown. He”—she took a deep breath—”he was wearing a gun. And when I didn't hear from him again, I got so worried.” She leaned across the desk and looked at him beseechingly. “Please tell me he's all right, if you know anything at all about him.”

His eyes were actually twinkling. Probably he was laughing at the silly besotted female, but she didn't care. It was worth it if she got information.

“It seems to me I warned you about this very thing,” he said slowly.

“What?” She wasn't sure what he was talking about.

“I seem to remember telling you to stay away from the man.”

“Oh.” Yes, she remembered. But what did that have to do with anything? “Well, I guess I should have listened.
 
But I didn’t.
 
Not soon enough.” She felt color creeping into her cheeks. “What I mean is, I really wouldn't want him to know I was asking about him this way. I told him not to try to see me again when I left Newport. But then I started worrying about the gun...”

“Men like Michael,” he went on, leaning toward her and talking as though she hadn't said a word, “crave the excitement of the new and different. They can't stand repetition. Pastoral scenes bore them to tears. They don't make good husbands.”

“Detective Gladstone.” Shelley drew herself up. “I know all that. I didn't come for a lecture in relationship adjustment. I just want to know if Michael is all right.”

He grimaced. “I don't know.”

He might, or he might not, be telling the truth. He looked so cold and unbending, sitting there. Didn't he have any heart at all? Shelley stared at him for a long, fruitless moment, then gave up. “All right, Detective. Sorry to have taken your time.” She rose and started for the door again. She was almost through it when he spoke.

“I'll see what I can find out, Ms. Carrington. Leave me your number. I'll get in touch with you.”

Funny how a moment before he'd looked cold and heartless, and now, despite his lean physique, he seemed like Santa Claus. She danced out of the station and drove back to her office in a haze. That night when the phone rang at about nine o'clock, she knew before she answered it that it was going to be news about Michael.

“He's in Hawaii,” Sam Gladstone told her. “There were some loose ends to a case he was working on over the weekend that took him there.”

“So he's all right?” Shelley closed her eyes with relief. “Thank God,” she whispered.

“He seems to be fine.” There was a pause. “One other thing.”

“Yes?” Something in his voice told her this “other thing” was not going to be pleasant.

“He may be staying.”

“In Hawaii?” She felt numb.

“Yes. There's an opening in an organization he's been interested in for a long time. They've offered him the job. Rumor is, he's accepted.”

“I see.” It doesn't matter, she was saying to herself over and over, like a chant, a mantra. It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.

But it did matter. She couldn't fool herself. He was so far away. She felt sick inside at the thought
of the ocean between them.
I'll never see him again
, she thought.
How can I stand it
?

“Thank you so much, Detective. I really do appreciate it.”

She hung up the telephone feeling as though a cement mixer had taken up residence in her stomach.

There was one thing about being a psychologist—she had a thousand and one remedies for what ailed her, all lining the walls of her office, all safely ensconced in the books that she'd read and studied for years. She could pull almost any title from the shelf and know it contained a confident prescription for putting her life in order.

Yeah, right.
 
In a perfect world.
 

She tried to keep busy.
 
She went shopping with Robin, spent some time at Mickey’s, seeing old friends, even got a little bit involved with her sister Kathy’s quest to become the first swimmer of her age to win a distance event at an international meet.
 

Kathy had been working toward this goal with Jim, her coach, for over a year and she’d had some success, but when she went to a big meet in Las Vegas before Christmas, she’d come down with appendicitis and that had set her back.
 
She was in extremely tough training now, about to try again in Rome.
 
The interesting thing was, they had lost their university pool and she was training in a hotel pool, right out there in front of everyone.
 
Shelley and her brother Rick spent some time hanging out there, giving her moral support.
 
They had to make up for the support Kathy never seemed to get from their parents.
 
And it gave Shelley something else to keep her mind off Michael.
 

But it wasn’t enough.
 

“Psychologist, heal thyself!” she ordered herself.
 
But even though she tried, none of the usual answers worked for her.
 
The stress was piling up.
 

Her work helped.
 
One morning, about a week after talking to Sam, it all seemed to be crashing down on her.
 
She saw the few clients on her schedule and was able to keep her mind on their problems for the required hour. She even gave them each some good suggestions on improving their own attitudes—and felt like a hypocrite the whole time. How did she dare tell these people what to do when she couldn't take her own advice?

It was all for the best, she kept telling herself. The farther away he was, the easier to forget him.

But why hadn't he at least given her a call
? a little traitorous voice, deep inside, kept carping.
Why didn't he drop you a postcard?
Love the islands, wish you were here.

Because he's forgotten all about you, foolish one. Because he's having the time of his life, and you were but a moment in an eternity of excitement. Face it, and get on with things.

Okay. That's what I'll do. In just a little while. First, let me remember his dark hair, and the eyes that sparkled like stars and the way his hand would slip down to cover my shoulder with warmth. ...

By late afternoon she knew she had to do something. Transactional Analysis might be an answer. It was, after all, an approach she'd been getting into lately. Why wasn't she using it? It was time to forget the Child in herself and bring out the Adult. “Act happy, and you'll be happy,” she told herself, just as she'd told others so many times. “Go through the motions and eventually they become reality for you.”

Michael was out of her life. She should be happy about that. It was what she wanted, what she'd asked for. So why wasn't she celebrating?

She took care of that on the way home from work. Stopping at the most exclusive market in town, she bought three thick steaks, a pair of tall candles, and a bottle of golden champagne. “I'm going to celebrate until I'm happy,” she told herself through clenched teeth. “No matter how long it takes.”

The apartment had a still, expectant air to it as she let herself in with the key. “Robin?” she called out, heading straight into the kitchen by way of the hall, completely bypassing the living room. “We're going to have a party. I'm even planning to invite good old Jeff. What do you think?”

Silence greeted her. She put her grocery bags on the counter and began to unpack them, thinking Robin must be out until she heard the door from the dining area open behind her.

“Shelley.” Robin's voice was strained.

Shelley turned and looked at her friend. “What's the matter? You look as though you'd seen a ghost.”

“Shelley, Michael's here.”

She whirled, turning away from the door just as it was opening again. Staring at the stove, she kept pulling things out of the paper bag blindly with no idea what she was moving from one place to another. She could feel him in the room. Every part of her was screaming with the need to turn and run to him, but she wouldn't let herself do it. Instead, she pulled out the three steaks and placed them on the counter, tearing off the white paper, then reached into the bag again.

“Hello, Shelley.” His voice was low and rich, just as she remembered it.

Her fingers tightened on the loaf of bread she'd just pulled from the sack, holding on as though it were a life preserver. He really was all right, and he was here, and any moment now, she was going to have to turn and face him. Would he read the truth in her eyes? Anything—anything but that!

“Hi, Michael.” Pretend he was Jeff or any other man she knew casually—that was the answer. Turn and grin at him as you would at any drop-in guest. She turned slowly, a false smile plastered on her lips. “What are you doing here?”

The smile hadn't been plastered well enough. It fell away fast once she got a good look at him. Who was this person in her kitchen? The first Michael Hudson she'd met had been suave and elegantly dressed. Mike Daniels had been a little tackier, but nothing to startle the birds out of trees.
 

But this!
 

Atop black hair slicked back with enough grease to lubricate half the cars in the county sat huge dark glasses, poised at an arrogant angle. He wore a scuffed-up black leather jacket over a soiled T-shirt, dirty jeans that clung to his thighs like snakeskin, and boots. To top it off his handsome face was obscured by a two-day growth of beard that made him appear about as cuddly as a Harley-Davidson. And with all that he still looked so good to her, she felt her stomach fall away at the sight of him.

“What on earth?” She gestured toward his outfit.

“Don't you like this?” He posed, tough guy. “I thought it made me look like early Marlon Brando. What do you think? Am I cool, or what?”

His eyes were laughing and suddenly so was she.
 

“I can dig it,” she said. “Like, hipsville, Daddy-o.”

“Like, thanks, baby.” He sidled up to her and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Like, you wanna go for a ride on my chopped hog?” He bobbed his eyebrows at her suggestively, and she was laughing at him, loving him helplessly, until she noticed Robin backing out of the kitchen door, trying to escape.

“Robin!” she called out, suddenly desperate. She couldn't be alone with Michael. He'd have her completely under control in no time at all. He was already halfway there.

“Gotta go.” Robin waved, looking guilty. “Just remembered an errand I've gotta run. See you in a bit.” And she was gone.

“Smart girl, your roommate,” Michael said, leaning back against the counter and tilting his head to gaze at her. “Bet she'd go for a ride on my bike if I asked her.”

“I'll bet she wouldn't.” Shelley turned back to look at him. Everything inside was bubbling with uneasy confusion. She gripped the bread even harder. “Why are you wearing that ridiculous outfit?”

“I'm working.” He broke a stalk off the bunch of celery she'd set on the counter and began to chew the end of it.

“What are you doing, infiltrating the Hell's Angels?”

His blue eyes were bright and steady. “This is one case I'm not going to let you get involved in,” he told her softly, “so I don't think I'll answer that.”

She licked her lips nervously. He was acting as though they'd just said good-bye yesterday, as though he hadn't told her to wait for him and then come back to find she’d done the opposite. Had he even read the letter? Maybe he'd never gone back to the hotel room himself. With a sinking heart she realized she might have to go through all the explanations again, and this time to his face.

“Michael, about the other day ...”

He was gazing at her steadily and she couldn't find much humor in his eyes. “Are you referring to the morning, when we made love, or to the evening, when you skipped out on me?”

So he did know.
 

“Did you read the letter I left for you? It explained—”

“Letter?” He pretended to look blank. “I don't remember any letter. There were some incoherent rantings scratched on the back of an old envelope. Something about divergent careers and lack of mutual interests. I didn't pay any attention to that.”

Why was her heart beating so fast? She had to get hold of herself. “You should pay some attention to it, Michael. I meant every word.” Her eyes were flashing. “And that wasn't some old envelope. It was hotel stationery. I didn't have anything else.”

He shrugged, biting off another chunk of celery. “Whatever. It doesn't matter.”

She glared at him. “It does too matter,” she announced evenly.

“No.” He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “I know a little psychology, too, you know. I can tell when a woman is just putting up barriers to make the chase more exciting.”

Her jaw dropped with outrage. “What? You egotistical—”

“I see you have a new hobby,” he interrupted, pointing to the tortured loaf she was still clinging to. “Abstract sculptures using bread putty. What an ingenious idea.” His grin was back. “What does that shape represent?”

She looked down at it in disgust. “Your neck,” she shot back, giving the loaf a vicious twist. She tossed the soggy mass into the trash and turned back to him. “Now, listen, Michael. We've got to talk.”

“Absolutely.” He threw down the rest of his stalk of celery and suddenly she was in his arms. “But first we've got to make out a little.”

Even in the rough ensemble he wore, his body felt hard and clean, and she wanted to reach inside the jacket and run her hands across his muscular chest. How tempting it was to take a bit of his warmth to her again. She had to resist if she was going to keep her sanity.

“No!” She struggled against his embrace. “I don't want to 'make out'!”

“That's just the way we motorcycle guys talk,” he said, talking tough again and nibbling on her neck. “If you're not up for making out, we’ll have to improvise.”