One More Night with You (3 page)

“Oh? Why?”

“If I answer that question, what will the next one be?”

“Why do you need protection?”

Joey was here as a client, not a patient. She answered Willa's scrutiny with, “Ohhh, no, you don't, Miz Willa.”

“First, I quite like that—
Miz Willa.
Second, what is it that you're taking offense to now?”

“Charlotte didn't talk me into a therapy session. I'm here to meet somebody. An okay guy who can get me through my friend's wedding, help me bust a few Os along the way and back off when it's time.”

“So you've assigned an expiration date to a relationship that hasn't yet formed.”

Again with the psychological detour. Was this Willa Smart the matchmaker, or Willa Smart the shrink?

The decor said she'd entered a trap of the latter. Aside from being overrun with flowers, it contradicted Joey's imaginings. Behind Willa's desk was a wall of frames that showed off credentials: doctoral degrees, therapist licenses, Association for Psychological Science awards. An ultra-comfy sofa cluttered with a pile of random throw pillows prevented the space from being labeled sterile. In place of candlelight and sultry R&B music were sunshine and opera. Where she thought she might find snapshots of smiling, happily matched couples were strange photographs of barren landscapes.

Instead of shag carpeting, Joey found hardwood beneath her patent leather Christian Louboutin beauties as she paced the width of Willa's desk. “Stop, all right? I'm not dumb.”

“Agreed,” Willa said emphatically, consulting her tablet. “You're a crack shot. You've incapacitated attackers twice your size without the benefit of a weapon. You can solve a Rubik's cube with your breath held.”

“I'm sorry, I thought my questionnaire answers were privileged info.”

“And they are. You shared these facts on your welcome survey.”

“Oh.” A shrug. “About the Rubik's cube. That's more of a party trick. Gets a few laughs. My personal best is under three minutes, but I'm not trying to break world records.”

“It still speaks to remarkable cleverness. Also damn impressive bravado.”

“Point is?”

“Those answers were in response to ‘What do you value most about yourself?'”

“Okay, so? I answered on a whim. Didn't realize I'd be judged on it.”

“I'm not judging—”

Joey cut her off. “You are. Looking at me now and skimming a welcome survey, you think you have a handle on me. You see somebody dysfunctional, somebody unmatchable.”

“Those are neither my words nor my thoughts, Josephine. Take a seat, please.”

“I have to go to work—” she jerked up her wrist for a glance at her watch. 8:06 “—within the hour.”

“Then I'll be brief.” Willa gestured to the sofa, and when Joey sank onto the cushions and pillows she scooted her chair away from the desk and moved it directly in front of her skittish client.

“Why ditch the desk?” Joey asked.

“The desk gives the impression that I hold a position of power over whomever's on the other side. I hold no power over you, Josephine. You're free to leave at any time, but I hope you'll allow me to say my piece.”

Joey rested the cane across her lap then absentmindedly laid a throw pillow on top of it. “Go ahead.”

“Is that a habit, concealing your stick?”

“Willa, I underwent psychiatric evals after the shooting. I'm sure you're aware that's standard protocol for folks in law enforcement. I don't need a touch-up.”

The woman conceded with a nod. “The Blues are my friends and since you're rather important to them, I feel it's my duty to impart some wisdom here. It's highly unlikely that you're unmatchable. But you're searching for something even you aren't sure you really want, as though some part of your past is unresolved.”

“Trust me, short-term is what I want. I'm independent—set in my ways, as Papá would call it. I have a house, a demanding job with long hours.”

“What about relationships?”

“Commitment's too restrictive for me. I have a pretty good thing going. Completely free to share my body.”

“And your heart?”

“That's not up for grabs anymore. I don't feel safe anymore.”

Willa watched her steadily, and as the years began to roll back to a night in a parking garage—violence that hadn't taken Joey's life but had killed some part of her all the same—the room started to close in.

Get out. Now.
Blurting some excuse, she jostled the pillows aside and got to her feet. “Going forward, Willa, streamline this for me, okay? No itty-bitty steps, no internet courtship. Just get me in contact with the guy and I'll face-to-face him.”

“Are you certain you'd feel safe?”

Not entirely
. But she had to take control of some aspect of her life. If not this, then what? If not now, then when?

“Just set it up, Miz Willa. I can handle my life from here.”

* * *

“Well, this is anticlimactic.” As challenging as it was to continue up the steps to the Clark County Library—instead of surrendering to her gut's plea to bail on the stranger Dating Done Smart had dredged up for her—Joey couldn't keep the complaint sealed between her glossy Naughty Nude lips. Leaving now was an option, but one she wouldn't take. Since she hadn't parked the Camaro on Flamingo Road, she was far from escape and closer to the fate she'd agreed to days ago when notification came that she apparently wasn't undateable. Plus, risk-lust compelled her to at least get a look at him. She owed herself that.

But as far as blind dates went, this one was already off to a lackluster start. The man had suggested a library, of all venues. Not that she didn't appreciate such a place—because, hello, a building full of books!—or that she wanted a cliché meal-and-a-movie kind of afternoon. It felt too intimate...and strangely familiar, which was entirely illogical.

She'd attempted a blind date only once before, at age twelve. Considering how hellishly
that
experience had played out, it was sort of astonishing that she rallied enough courage to try it again now. So careless she'd been to sneak off her family's ranch and take a bus from El Paso to Corpus Christi to sing with a local country-star wannabe her friend Honey Sutherland had met while on a 4H Club field trip. So silly she'd been to have stars in her eyes and grown-up dreams of French kisses and music-making with some guy she didn't know, all because Honey had said he was awfully cute and drove a truck and smelled like Starburst candy. So lucky she'd been to find her parents waiting to intercept her at a depot. They'd busted up her plans and probably saved her ass.

There was no one to intercept her this time. But she was no longer careless or silly. Any naïveté or innocence she'd once had was gone. She didn't sing anymore, had forgotten the smell of Starburst and had been French-kissed in places that would disgust her twelve-year-old self.

“Say something, miss?”

Midway up the steps leading to the library's entrance, Joey paused and glanced at the hunched-shouldered man sitting with his corduroy-clad legs sprawled wide and his face cracking under a layer of sunburnt skin. “Thinking out loud. Didn't mean to disturb you.”

“Aw, ha! You didn't.” He jerked a skinny thumb, the nail ringed in filthy debris, toward the building behind him. “The folks coming out of there, with their damn phones and music whatchamacallits—
they
disturb me.”

As he rifled through a knapsack and yanked out a hardcover and a bag of potato chips, she began to move past him.

“Can I ask you a rude question?” the man called out. Again she paused. “See, people get a look at me, expect that I've got no use for manners and all that. Or they suppose I want money from 'em.”

“I don't think you want money. If you did you would've asked already.”

His grin revealed a set of stained teeth, but it was sincere and perhaps the most pleasant sight she'd find on this overcast day. “The cane...”

As if she hadn't heard variations of
this
before.
What's a good-looking thing like you doing with a cane? What's wrong with you? What turned you into a cripple?

They were words, only words, yet hauntingly painful.

“What's that made out of,” he asked, “marble?”

Joey smiled, nodding. Of the four she owned, the dove-white swirl one was the least offensive to her navy pinup dress. The 1940s-era-inspired dress, with its crisp collar, short sleeves and full skirt, might've been modest if not for the plunging neckline. “Yes, it's marble. That wasn't a rude question, but I've got one of my own. What are you reading?”

“Have a look for yourself.”

Peeking at her watch, discreetly assessing her surroundings and memorizing his physical details, she settled on the step beside him. The air was barely a whisper, and a stale, musty odor stung her nostrils. She reached for the book. “A biography on Copernicus. How are you finding it?”

“Pompous. I'd've made a bigger dent in it if it'd been written in plain English.” A moment of hesitation preceded, “My God, there's nothing more fascinating than a pretty lady reading.”

She smirked, thumbing the pages. “So is this a hobby, hanging out in front of libraries and stirring up conversations with pretty ladies?”

“Nope, miss, can't say it is. Most days I don't say much. Las Vegas is a busy place, and time's so precious that nobody seems to want to share it with folks who can't do nothing for 'em.”

And how true that was, she thought, closing the book. She was here only because she thought a professional Cupid had unearthed someone who would scratch an itch so deep and intangible even she couldn't pinpoint it.

“Miss? What's ailing you?”

Scoffing, she handed him the biography. “That famously infamous question. I was shot some years ago, had a couple of surgeries and now I have a permanent walking buddy.”

“Bottom of my heart, I'm sorry to know that,” he said, wrinkling his brow over jaundiced eyes. “I was meaning to ask what's got you wound tighter than a two-dollar watch, but I guess that's as good an answer as any.”

“Oh. Guess it is.” She for sure wasn't going to ramble on about a blind date to a man who might not have a fresh change of clothes or a real bed. “Give me a potato chip,
por favor
? I'll pay you for it.”

He frowned, confused, but opened the bag and shook out a few into a grimy hand. The unsanitary transaction made the food inedible, but she fished cash from her crossbody pocketbook and took the chips, anyway.

When he noticed Benjamin Franklin's face on the bill, he gasped. “Oh—no, miss—”

“Keep it,” she insisted, getting up. “Take care.”

“You, too, my friend.”

The library appeared busier than she'd seen it on a Saturday afternoon. Joey entered the building, and gratefulness for the air-conditioning outweighed the strands of angst that were as sticky as the loose curls clinging to the nape of her neck. Born in Mexico and bred in Texas, she was accustomed to warmer temps, but this summer's humidity seemed to amplify everything—the sizzle of the sun, the heat in the atmosphere, her anxiety.

Without a makeup arsenal, her best attempt at freshening up was to wash her hands and adjust the silver heirloom combs that held her hair from her face.

A frowning face. She worked her jaw to wiggle loose some of the tension, tried on a smile but it felt too artificial. Giving up, she backed away from the restroom mirror and made her way to the lobby art gallery.

Patrons and staff zigzagged across the floor, crowded the lobby. By force of habit Joey logged the faces, stored every unique feature in her memory bank. None of them triggered suspicion, but a dull sense of apprehension built as she neared her destination—as though the spirit of someone as intimate as a lover and as dangerous as an enemy had draped an arm over her shoulders.

At the gallery she stopped short, recognizing a nosy, stubborn, ebony-haired friend. “Charlotte, what the hell?” She hadn't meant to growl, but stress had been all but choking her. “I told you I could do this without backup.”

The woman had the actual nerve to look befuddled as she turned around. “Sometimes I forget how talented you are at putting the
ass
in
assumption
. Who says I'm not here to get at look at CCL's collections?”

“Are you?”

“All right, no, I'm not. I came to watch out for you.” Charlotte, in leggings and a Las Vegas Slayers polo shirt, had clearly driven straight over from the team's training camp facility in Mount Charleston. “It's what friends do. You would do the same, and, actually, you have.”

“And I recall you didn't appreciate it all that much.” It was a careful reference to how affronted Charlotte had been when she'd discovered Joey had used FBI connections to excavate Nate Franco's past—because Charlotte's history with men wasn't exactly glowing.

“Turns out, it was for the best.”

Yeah, if
for the best
meant stumbling upon a sophisticated illegal gambling ring that had yet to lead an almighty kingpin to justice. But she wouldn't harp on that now. “Charlotte, this is a date in a library. I've engaged in riskier hookups than this. So far I'm underwhelmed, but I'll be fine.”

“Underwhelmed?”

“Just a feeling I have that my life won't change a damn iota once I meet mystery guy. And to think I waxed it bald for this.”

“Waxed it bald.” Charlotte's mouth twisted in a smirk.

“Well, I'm an optimist.”

“About the location. You told me it was his idea to meet here. A library's probably one of the least romantic spots in this city.”

“Beg to differ there. The brain's the absolute sexiest organ. Get that stimulated and...wow.”