One Wrong Step (5 page)

That, plus Feenie’s repeated warnings that he was a chronic playboy incapable of a serious relationship.

Celie picked up her fishbowl-size margarita. She hadn’t had one in forever. She hadn’t had any alcohol, in fact, in months. It was all part of her health kick, the health kick that now seemed utterly pointless.

Celie plastered a smile on her face, like she always did when her mood bordered on maudlin.

“So, congratulations on your new job,” she said, taking a sip. Wow, that margarita packed a punch. She needed to watch herself or she’d be under the table in nothing flat. “I guess the
Herald
is a big step up from the
Mayfield Gazette
, huh?”

He shrugged. “It’s a step.”

“And how do you like Austin?”

He hesitated a moment. “I like it. It’s scenic. Sunny. Everyone’s friendly and easygoing.” He leaned back in his chair and watched her. “What do
you
think of Austin? You’ve been here, what? A couple months now?”

“Eight.”

He flinched, and then covered it with a carefree smile. “Damn, I wish you’d called me. I could’ve helped you settle in.”

Now there was a loaded statement.

“Actually,” she said, “I settled in pretty quick. Enrolled in a few classes, got a job. You know, the usual.”

But his blue eyes were perceptive, and she could see he knew there was nothing “usual” about it, at least not where she was concerned. Reenrolling in school had been a major milestone for her, something she’d spent years gathering the courage to do. Luckily, her credits with the university hadn’t expired. She supposed she had the special circumstances surrounding her withdrawal to thank for that.

He leaned his muscular forearms on the table. “I’m glad you’re finishing your degree. What do you have left now? One semester?”

“That, plus a six-month practicum in social work.”

He smiled. “That’s great. You’re almost there.”

Celie looked away. This was a bad idea. She shouldn’t be out with McAllister. No matter how attractive he was, he knew way too much about her, and her defenses vanished around him.

With Robert, it had been different. She’d met him down in Mayfield about a year after the trial, and, although he’d heard about it vaguely through the grapevine, he wasn’t clued in on all the details. Nor did he want to be. Celie had liked that about him. That and the fact he seemed safe, secure, harmless. He was courteous and nice, and he had a good job at an accounting firm. He liked to barbecue and play golf once a week. The very blandness of it all had attracted Celie to him.

“Celie? You listening?” McAllister was watching her intently.

She wondered what it would be like to sleep with John McAllister. Probably anything but bland. It might be fun, actually. Imagine that.

She had. Too many times to count.

“Celie?”

“I’m sorry. What?” From the way he was staring at her, she wondered if he knew the direction her thoughts had taken.

“I said, do you want to get this to go?”

The waitress had delivered their entrées. The scent of grilled onions wafted over from McAllister’s fajita platter, and steam rose up from Celie’s enchilada plate. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten all day.

“No. Thanks.” She took an icy gulp of margarita. Warmth radiated through her system, and her shoulders relaxed a smidgen. “This is great.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You sure? You seem distracted.”

“I’m fine. Really. Why don’t you tell me what
you’ve
been up to?”

John watched her nibbling on her enchilada while she skillfully evaded his questions. He’d had her there for a minute, the real Cecelia, the woman behind the thousand-watt smile. It seemed like every time he caught a glimpse of her, she retreated behind an impenetrable wall of polite conversation.

“And have you seen any good movies lately?”

Fuck. “Not really. You?”

And with that witty remark, they started down the predictable path of first-date banter. John would have been ready for a nap, but the mindless exchange gave him a chance to look at her. Really
look.

She seemed different now than she had back in Mayfield, less polished somehow. John couldn’t decide whether he liked it or not. Her hair had changed, for one thing. He’d never realized it before, but that straw blonde color must have come from a bottle. Her real color was darker, more like honey.

Pretty.

And her body was different, too. Last time he’d seen her, she’d been thin, like a woman addicted to her aerobics class. She still looked good, but she was softer now, a little fuller through the hips, he’d noticed. His gaze strayed southward as she sipped her drink. Fuller in the breasts, too.

She looked sexy. Womanly. And not in the obvious, over-made-up way he was accustomed to. Most women he dated put everything on display, but Celie was different, and it worked for her. Even in faded jeans and a T-shirt, she held his attention. She seemed natural, confident. It was fucking attractive. He wanted to go home with her tonight so they could finish what they’d started back in Mayfield.

But they were in Small Talk Land, which meant she planned to keep him at a distance. He needed to change her mind.

“Hey, not to rush you, but you mind if I get the check?”

Her smile faltered. “Not at all.” She looked down at her bare plate and the empty glasses. She’d ordered a second margarita halfway through the meal. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you.”

“You didn’t.” He signaled the waitress. “It’s just their bar’s getting crowded, and I can barely hear you. You care if we leave?”

“No, that’s fine, but”—she glanced around the restaurant, then back at him—“could we get another drink somewhere or something? I don’t really want to go home just yet.”

And neither did he.

Wanting to stay the hell away from Sixth Street, John drove to a quiet pub north of campus. The place was frequented by grad students and some literary types from the faculty. John steered Celie to a dimly lit corner and found a table.

“This is nice,” she said, pulling up a stool made from a converted whiskey barrel. “Kind of homey.”

He smiled. He’d never heard the Ale House referred to as “homey,” but it sort of fit. She probably liked the candles scattered around the tables.

“Can I get you a beer?” he asked.

“Hmm…You think they have margaritas?”

Her cheeks were tinged pink, and she had the vaguely happy look of someone well on her way to being toasted.

Fine with him. She’d had a crappy day and deserved to toss back a few drinks.

“Coming right up. It’ll probably be on the rocks, though. I’ve never heard a blender in here.”

She smiled. “That’s fine.”

“Back in a sec.”

He made his way to the bar, fielding greetings from regulars and smiles from some of the women. As soon as he got the drinks, he returned to the table.

Celie was just where he’d left her, but the empty stool beside her was occupied now by Austin’s very own celebrity scribe, Andrew Stone. The guy had perfect hair, perfect clothes, and perfect teeth. Despite being vertically challenged, he probably could have made it as a TV anchor. But he had a Woodward-and-Bernstein complex, so instead of talking to the camera he wrote pseudo-investigative pieces for
Lone Star Monthly
, the state’s version of
Vanity Fair
. In reality, Stone didn’t investigate stories so much as he
read
stories written by newspaper reporters, then regurgitated them with better photos.

John watched as Stone leaned close to Celie, said something, and brushed his hand down her back.

John plunked the drinks on the table, sloshing Guinness on Stone’s designer pants.

Stone looked up, startled. “McAllister! Long time no see, bud.” He toweled himself off with a napkin. “Once again, you’ve cornered the market on beautiful ladies.”

To Celie’s credit, she rolled her eyes.

“You’re in my chair,
bud.
”

Stone stood up, all manners. “Sorry there, pal. Couldn’t stand to see a pretty girl sitting alone.” He looked down at Celie and cocked his head to the side. “You sure we haven’t met before? You look so familiar.”

She smiled. “I don’t think so.”

John sat down and scooted his stool right beside Celie’s.

“But you said UT, right? We must have had a class together or something. I swear I recognize you from someplace.”

Okay, game over. John looked up at Stone. “Hey, I’m surprised to see you here. Don’t you usually hang out at the Hobbit Hole?”

Stone’s face reddened. The Hobbit Hole
was
an actual bar, but John doubted Stone had ever set foot in the place. He was sensitive about his height.

“Not really my scene,” Stone said tightly. Then he nodded at Celie. “I need to get going. Nice meeting you, Cecelia.”

After he left, John glanced over the rim of his beer glass and caught Celie’s reproachful frown.

“That was mean.”

John shrugged. “Guy’s an asshole.”

She crossed her arms and looked around, taking everything in. “Do you really hang out here?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“It’s not at all what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “College girls, maybe? Or at least a little more silicone.”

“Thanks a lot.”

She looked down and ran her index fingertip over the rim of her glass, then licked the salt off. His gaze followed her movements.

“Feenie warned me about you, you know.”

“I’m aware of that.”

She propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. The margarita buzz seemed to be overriding her need for small talk. “She’s usually right about stuff like that, too. She’s a good judge of character.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, that first husband of hers was a real winner.”

Celie smirked. “Are you saying she’s off base about you?”

John tucked a strand of that honey blonde hair behind her ear. “Celie, honey?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you forget about what Feenie says and find out for yourself?”

J
ohn had miscalculated. Badly. That third margarita had done way more than take the edge off Celie’s bad day. And the fourth one she’d insisted on had made her good and sloshed.

“Sorry,” she said, grabbing his arm as she stumbled from the elevator. “I’m over here. Last one on the left.”

John guided her down the hallway, cursing his stupidity. This woman weighed about a buck twenty. He should have known she wouldn’t be able to hold her liquor.

“Stop!” She halted in her tracks.

Here we go.

“Is the hall tilting?”

“That’s just the tequila.”

She clasped his arm. “But it feels
tilty.
”

He sighed and tugged her forward. “Come on. We’re almost there.” Her pink fingernails dug into his skin. He was going to have claw marks tomorrow, and not the fun kind.

When they finally reached the door, she just stood there, staring up at him. He reached for the purse at her side, and she flinched.

“Relax,” he said, unzipping it to look for her keys.

“Oh. Here.” She produced something from her front pocket. It was a single key, not a key chain, and she folded it into his palm.

He unlocked the door and flipped on the light. Her apartment was messy, just as she’d left it. There were shoes on the floor and wadded tissues scattered across the coffee table. The entire place smelled like burned sugar, which John attributed to whatever mysterious event had put the scald mark on her kitchen ceiling.

Celie crossed the room purposefully and opened the refrigerator.

“You want something to drink?” she asked. “I don’t have any beer, but I could make us some caffee.
Coffee.
”

John closed the door behind him and locked it. He didn’t expect to be here long, but he wasn’t taking any chances with her safety. Her ex-husband had been mixed up with some extreme lowlifes.

“I’m fine, thanks.” He followed her into the kitchen. “Why don’t you have some water, though? You’ll thank yourself tomorrow.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you implying that I’m drunk?”

“I’m implying that you’re thirsty. You just don’t know it yet.”

Maybe she recognized the futility of argument. Or maybe she was just too wasted to give a shit, but she got a glass down from the cabinet without further comment and poured herself some ice water. She turned back to face him and tipped her head to the side thoughtfully.

“You know, you’ll never be truly happy,” she said, sighing. “You’re much too good looking.”

Spoken like a true drunk. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“No.” She took a sip of water. “So, there’s this question I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

“Let’s hear it.” This could actually get interesting.

“Why’d you offer me a ride home from Feenie’s wedding last summer?”

He knew better than to answer that honestly, but he doubted she’d remember this conversation in the morning.

He leaned back against the counter. “I wanted to sleep with you.”

Her expression didn’t change, so he guessed she knew this already. Hell, it hadn’t been much of a secret at the time.

She held the sweaty glass to her neck and gazed at him for a long moment. “And now? Do you still want to sleep with me?”

Fuck.

“At the moment,” he said carefully, “I’m more concerned with getting you tucked in before you get ‘tilty’ again.”

A gleam came into her eye, and his body responded before his brain could. She placed the glass on the counter and sauntered over to him. Then she settled herself against him and slid her hands up around his neck. Those pretty fingernails combed through his hair, and he took a deep breath.

“That wasn’t a challenge,” he said, resting his hands on her ass. She felt good. Much too good. And he fully intended to leave in the next five minutes.

She stood on tiptoes and kissed his neck. “Stay with me tonight,” she whispered. “Please?”

“Celie—”

She touched his lips with hers, and he lost track of whatever damn thing he’d been about to say. Her mouth was tart. And warm. And tempting in a way that was painful to think about right now. He pulled her closer, just to torture himself, and heard a faint little moan.

How had he gotten into this predicament?
Four
freaking margaritas. A rookie mistake.

She was the one to pull away. She gazed up at him, and he wondered what she was thinking. Then her hand dropped down and reached for his belt.

“Don’t.” He grabbed her wrist. Her eyes widened, and she drew back.

Shit, now he’d hurt her feelings.

“We’ll try this again tomorrow,” he said, wrapping her in a hug. He had two minutes, tops, to get out of here before she got watery and apologetic. And after that he’d be in for an endless stream of sob stories about Robert.

“You’ll come back tomorrow?” Her voice was muffled against his chest.

“Sure. How about lunch?” If she was even functional by then.

“Um. Lunch.” She squirmed out of his arms and stared off into space, frowning. “I have something to do…the Bluebonnet House!”

She looked up at him. “You want to come to an Easter party?”

An Easter party. She’d mentioned that to the feds earlier, but he’d thought she was bullshitting. “Sure. Just tell me when and where.”

“The Bluebonnet House,” she said, sighing. “Bring your basketball shoes. Enrique will love you.”

O-kay. Who the hell was Enrique?

John wrapped an arm around her and steered her out of the kitchen toward the door. Her breast pressed against his side, and he told himself he was doing the right thing, leaving now. He suspected she’d be asleep or puking by the time he made it to the elevator.

She slouched against him, and his suspicions were confirmed. “Thanks for dinner,” she mumbled.

“Anytime.”

A relentless hammering jarred Celie awake. Who was
hammering
something at—she checked her clock—9:45 in the morning?

She shot out of bed, and her head imploded.

Boom, boom, boom!

“Just a
minute
!” The noise was coming from her front door, which meant either the building was on fire or Dax was home from vacation. She stumbled across the apartment and checked the peephole.

Dax. Decked out in athletic gear. She undid the locks and pulled open the door.

“Was I hallucinating, or did Matthew McConaughey deliver you home from a bar last night?”

Celie stepped back to let him in. “It was a Mexican restaurant.” Followed by a bar, yes, but so what?

Frowning, Dax stepped closer and pressed his palm against her forehead. “You okay, sweetie? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”

“Thanks.” Coming from a guy who worked with sick people all day, this comment didn’t do much for her mood. Celie glanced down at herself. She’d slept in her clothes, apparently, and she looked like a pile of laundry.

She staggered into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. “You want some coffee?”

“I’m already wired, thanks. Just on my way to the weight room. Thought you might wanna come walk on the treadmill and hear about my trip.”

She measured out the coffee, adding an extra scoop for her hangover. “Can’t do it today. I’ve got an Easter party at the Bluebonnet House in”—she glanced at the clock—“forty minutes. But I’m dying to hear about Australia.”

Dax set his iPod on the counter and pulled up a bar stool. “Australia was fabulous, the outback was breathtaking, and I have a whole new appreciation for my Sleep Number bed. Now tell me about the hottie.”

Celie smiled. Dax had finally realized his lifelong dream of going to Australia, but apparently her going on a date was bigger news. “His name’s John McAllister. I know him from home, and it wasn’t a date.”

Dax combed a hand through his peroxide blonde locks, freshening up his trendy, just-out-of-bed hairstyle.

“Are you wearing mousse to the
gym
?” Celie asked. He had more elaborate grooming habits than most women she knew.

“I’m recovering from civilization withdrawal,” he said defensively. “Spit it out, Celie. What’s up with this guy?”

“Do you mind if we don’t talk about my non–love life? I’ve already got a screaming headache.”

“I can see that.” His brown eyes grew concerned. “And I’m guessing since you were out on a drinking binge last night, your appointment didn’t go well.”

Dax was referring to the results of her latest round of in vitro fertilization. Celie had gone to her doctor two weeks ago so a blood test could confirm what she already had suspected: this latest round of IVF had been a failure, just like the two before it.

She tried to smile. “Guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Oh, sweetie.” He came around the counter and pulled her into a hug. She never would have guessed her twenty-eight-year-old neighbor would become her fertility coach as well as her closest friend in Austin. Dax had been with her through all the ups and downs of the past eight months. As a physician’s assistant, he’d talked her through the medical jargon, helped monitor her numerous prescriptions, and even administered the injections she couldn’t handle by herself. He’d done everything short of donating DNA to her endeavor.

Dax had been a godsend, and he knew more than anyone else in the world the incredible lengths to which Celie had gone trying to have a baby.

Celie stepped out of the hug and dabbed her eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

She got a mug down from the cabinet. “I’m having kind of a rough patch.”

“I understand,” Dax said, although, really, he had no idea. “Let’s look forward. When’s your next cycle start?”

She poured some coffee. “I think this was it for me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I think I’m tapped out. Financially and emotionally.”

“You sure? You’re only, what, thirty-one? God, in IVF years you’re a
child.
There’s still plenty of time—”

She held up a hand. “I’ve been at it four years now.” After three years of more conventional attempts, she’d decided to cross the high-tech threshold. She’d even uprooted her life and moved to Austin to be near a world-class fertility clinic. The clinic had helped thousands of women become mothers, but it hadn’t helped her.

“I just don’t want to beat myself up over this anymore. It feels like it’s taken over my life.” She sipped her coffee and looked at Dax. Just having him in her kitchen was a comfort, even if he didn’t know what to say.

“Well,” he said, “I admire your efforts.”

She scoffed. Her efforts hadn’t amounted to anything more than a series of insanely high medical bills. Oh, and fifteen excess pounds, a wonderful side effect of all the drugs she’d been taking and her doctor’s periodic exercise bans. But, hey, Celie believed in looking on the bright side. Thanks to all the prenatal vitamins, her hair and nails had never looked better.

Too bad she couldn’t care less.

“I’m serious,” Dax said. “If there’s anything I can do—”

“Actually, there is.” She glanced at the clock. “Could you give me a ride to work? I still really want to hear about your trip, and my car was stolen, so I’m stranded.”

“It was
stolen
? When?”

“Right after my ex-husband came to visit me Friday night.”

Dax shook his head. “I leave town for two weeks, and your life becomes a soap opera.”

Celie topped off her coffee. “You don’t know the half of it. Take me to my party, and I’ll fill you in.”

“Thanks.” The brunette smiled sweetly. “But I’m actually in a hurry this morning.”

“Don’t be too hasty, ma’am. If you blow off recommended maintenance, you’re liable to end up on the side of the road with a breakdown.”

Rowe stood in the parking lot of the lube shop and watched the woman he was fairly certain was Kate Kepler talk to a mechanic about her car.

“At a minimum, we recommend you change out all your fluids,” the guy continued, shoving a list under her pretty, turned up nose. “The sooner the better.”

She took the list and folded it neatly, then slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans. She wore them low on her hips, showing a strip of toned, tanned stomach. Rowe tried not to stare because she was practically a teenager.

“Thanks,” she said, “but I’ll take a pass.”

“You sure, ma’am? You should at least change the air filter. We’re running a special—”

“Look.” She squared her petite shoulders and planted her hands on her hips.

Rowe leaned back against his car to enjoy the show. Nothing about Kate Kepler was what he’d expected, starting with the fact that she was so damn young.

“I realize you guys are running a business here. I also know a lot of these mantras you chant come down from corporate.” She edged closer, not seeming at all put off by the mechanic’s greasy gray coveralls. He frowned down at her. “I can appreciate that. But what I
don’t
appreciate is your trying to scare me into buying ninety dollars’ worth of services I don’t really need.”

“Ma’am?”

She crossed her arms. “There’s nothing wrong with my fluids. Or my filter, for that matter, and we both know it. I came here for an oil change, just like the two
men
you serviced before me. How come you didn’t try to up-sell them with all this crap?”

The mechanic backed away, belatedly deciding he didn’t want a confrontation. She whipped out her wallet.

“I’d like the bill, please,” she said. “And my keys.”

Rowe intercepted her a few minutes later, just as she was opening the door to her black Beetle. “Kate Kepler?”

She shot him a glare. “What now? You want to sell me some snow tires?”

Rowe slid his hands into his pockets. “Do I look like a tire salesman?”

Her brown eyes skimmed over his dark suit. “Hmm, not really. But let me save you some time here. I’m also not in the market for life insurance or Amway.”

He smiled. “I’m not selling anything. I just want to talk.”

Her eyes became wary suddenly, adding years to her age. Now she looked old enough to vote.

“Who are you?”

“Special Agent Mike Rowe, FBI.” He extended his hand and watched the lightbulb come on. “The guy you’ve been dodging the last twenty-four hours?”