The Tin Man (26 page)

Before he could answer,
Nirvana started playing inside her purse. She dug out her cell and checked the display. It was Glenda. At last. Too bad the signal was weak and her battery charge was on its last legs.

“
Hey, Glenda. Thanks for calling back.”

“
No problem. How’s it going?”

“
Good, good,” she said hurriedly. “We might be onto something, but I don’t have the time—or the juice—to go into it now. I do have a question, though: Do you happen to know the name of the guy who’s mounting the hostile takeover against Golden Age?”

“
Not off the top of my head,” Glenda said, “but give me a minute and I’m sure I can find it.”

Thea
waited, throwing furtive glances at Buchanan, praying her battery wouldn’t die before Glenda got back on the line.

“Found it.
Right where I thought it would be, which isn’t often the case, let me tell you.”

Thea
fretted as Glenda’s voice faded in and out.

“
And?”

“
It’s a British company. Olympus Enterprises. The guy who runs it is a former stockbroker named Robert Sterling. And, let me tell you, he sounds like a real piece of work.”

Thea
was losing half of every third word, but managed to string enough together to get the gist.

“What do you mean by
a real piece of work
?”

“I mean he’s into
….”

The call cut out before
she got her answer.

“Dam
n.”

Buchanan
looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

“My phone died.”

“Check in the console,” he suggested. “Maybe there’s a charger that’ll work.”

She did and
, to her relief, there was. She plugged in her phone and set it in one of the beverage holders between them.

“
Did you get a name?” he prodded.

“
Yeah,” she replied. “Olympus Enterprises is the company. Do you know them? Glenda says it’s a British outfit.”

“Afraid not,” he said, shaking his head, “and the Black Knight? Did she give you a name?”

“Robert Sterling.”

That was when she saw it.
A big rickety barn sitting out in a field all alone. The weathered timbers shone silver in the moonlight. It was rotted out in places and leaning precariously, but there was an opening in the side big enough to drive a tractor through.

“Look,” she cried, pointing it out. “It’s perfect.”

He must have agreed because he hit the brake and cranked the wheel. As the Toyota was bouncing across the field, he turned to her with a crooked grin.

“So
, Thea, are you trying to tell me something?”

“What do you mean?”

“You live beside the Museum of Sex. You took me to Intercourse. And now you want to spend the night in a hayloft.”

“Would you rather keep driving
, smart-ass?”

“Only if that bloody barn is full of rats.”

Thea bristled. She hadn’t thought of that.

“Do you think it might be?”

“Probably,” he said with a shrug, “but better beady-eyed rodents than bullets, eh?”

* * * *

Buchanan pulled the Toyota inside the barn and shut off the engine, but left the headlamps on and the key in the ignition. The barn was dark and rather creepy and the wind coming through the cracks and holes was icy cold. He shivered as he glanced toward the hayloft, now bathed in light, yearning for that king-sized bed.

And for
the feel of Thea against him, flesh to flesh.

“We’re in luck,” she
called to him from the boot, where she was looking for something to keep them warm. “Just as I’d hoped, there’s an old army blanket in here. It kind of smells like mothballs and gasoline, but it’s better than freezing our asses off.”

Much better, actually.
She tucked it under her arm before leading the way up a rickety set of stairs. Using the handrail to hoist himself up, he prayed that the whole thing wouldn’t collapse under their weight.

Her
sweet ass was close enough to grab, which he considered doing for a moment, but stopped himself. All at once, he was afraid to commit to consummation, afraid he might be too tired to make a good first impression. The first time would set the tone for the entire relationship. And he wasn’t sure he could do more right now than wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

And d
id he want to be that guy?

Upon reaching the top, she
kicked some of the hay into a mound before spreading the blanket out on top. The result was remarkably inviting. She sat, looking up at him expectantly. He just stood there for an awkward moment as performance anxiety continued fucking with his head. And his confidence.

“I don’t have a rubber,” he blurted rather lamely, feeling it needed
saying at some point. So why not now when he was at a loss for words? Besides, after they got started, if they ever did, turning back would be a good deal more difficult.

“It’s okay,” she said, “I have some in my purse.”

Her response gave him pause. Did she always carry rubbers? How much had she slept around? Why should it matter to him? But it did matter, didn’t it?

“
Thea, look—“

She stiffened.
“Oh God. You’re rejecting me again.”

“It’s not that,” he said
uneasily, kneeling in front of her. “But maybe we should talk first. You know, get to know each other a wee bit better before ripping each other’s clothes off?”

She eyed him dubiously as she patted the blanket beside her.

“Will you at least sit?”

H
e crawled beside her, feeling clumsy and ill at ease. He could feel the straw poking through the blanket, which sank noticeably under his weight. When he was settled, she took his hand. He welcomed her touch, feeling a slight spark. She had nice hands, he thought. Feminine and small-boned with long, graceful fingers.

“Tell me a
bout your childhood,” she said, looking into his gaze.

“
Aye, well,” he responded, clearing his throat, “What is it you want to know?”

She smiled, somewhat shyly
, which warmed him inside. “I want to know everything.”

He laughed. “If I show you mine, will you show me yours?”

“Ask me anything,” she said, her smile broadening. “But first, tell me about you.”

“
Aye, well,” he said again, drawing a breath. “There isn’t much to tell. I grew up in Edinburgh, as you know, in a suburb called Stockbridge. We lived on Raeburn Street, in a nice two-bedroom flat overlooking a private garden.”

“
Did you used to play in the garden? With your brother?”

“Lord, no,” he said, rolling his eyes. “
The garden was always full of young mums pushing prams and old hens who’d roost on the benches, clucking at any wean daft enough to enter their coop.”

She smiled at him softly. “
Wean?”

“A child.
In Scots, bairn means baby while wean means child.”

“Ah. So, where did you play then?”

“In the street, mostly. Stickball and football.” A realization made him add, “What you lot call soccer.”

“What else did you do? For fun, I mean.”

“Well, let me see…” he began, stopping a moment to comb his memory, “I used to watch
Doctor Who
on the telly with my family on Saturday evenings. When I was a bit older, we’d go out with the lads—Kenny and I—to the youth club to play pool, table tennis, and five-a-side football—or try to get served in one of the local pubs. Sometimes we’d go to the pictures and the Chinky.”

“The
Chinky?”

“The Chinese take-out joint.”

“Ah,” she said, withdrawing her hand. She lay back on the blanket. “And college?”

“I went to Edinburgh University,” he replied,
reclining beside her. “Even managed to do all right—a rather remarkable feat considering I spent more time in the pubs than in my lectures.”

“Did you major in journalism?”

“No.”

Edinburgh didn’t have an undergraduate journalism program, so he studied politics and international relations, hoping to one day become a foreign correspondent.
(Be careful what you wish for and all that, eh?)

“What about you? Where’d you go to school?”

“I did my undergraduate work at Georgia State,” she said. “My mother was an instructor there, which entitled me to a free ride.”

He realized then, with a pang of guilt, how little he really knew about her.
Her mother was a professor like her grandfather? He had no idea. “What did she teach?”

“Political science,” she replied, moving closer. “Her specialty was the Middle East.”

“Why’d you go into journalism? Besides not wanting to play it safe, I mean.”

“Well,” she said,
setting her head softly upon his shoulder, “I guess it was because I wanted to expose some of the evils in the world—evils someone might get away with otherwise.” She put a hand on his chest and began to play with his chest hair through his shirt. “What about you?”

“It’s a very long story,” he said, not wishing to go into it
. He found her proximity unsettling. But in a good way. “And rather dull, I’m afraid. Like the rest of my pathetic life.”

Shifting, he put his arm around her, pulling her against him.
He sat there in silence for a time, feeling calmer, but still a bit hesitant. She was an intriguing woman. Smart, gutsy, achingly beautiful, and sexy as hell. His blood warmed as he thought back on the kiss they’d shared at the cottage.

“
Thea,” he said unsurely. “I can’t make any promises.”

He heard her sigh.
“I’m not asking for promises. Just honesty.”

That much he could give her
, especially given his hopeless poker face. He could refuse to answer questions all day long, but not answer them falsely without giving himself away. “And can I count on the same from you?”

She chuckled.
“Are you kidding? I’m constitutionally incapable of telling a lie.”

He looked down at her,
tickled by her admission. “Are you now?”

She grinned up at him in a way he took as a challenge.
“Go ahead, ask me anything.”

He rubbed his chin, considering.
As his mind seized upon the rubbers in her purse, he said, “How many men have you been with?”

She coughed,
clearly caught off guard. “Does it matter?”

“Why do you
carry rubbers in your handbag?”

She
sat up and looked at him with an expression he read as equal parts annoyed and amused. “Is that what this is about? You think because I carry condoms I’m a big ole slut or something?”

He arched a
questioning eyebrow. “Did I say that?”

She turned away with a look of disgust. “You might as well have.”

“I don’t think you’re a slut, Thea. Truly. But I think I’ve got a right to know how many blokes have been there before me. Especially when I think I might be…”

She turned back, her expression softer
but keen. “Might be what?”

His heart seized up in protest. Was telling her too much of a commitment? He’d never told a woman he had feelings for her before—mainly because he never had. Not feelings like this, at any rate. Would his confession give rise to expectations he wasn’t prepared to meet? Or, rather, didn’t know how
to?

“Might be what, Alex?” Her voice was quieter, kinder. “Falling for me?”

“Aye,” he said, forcing the word through his narrowing throat.  

“Good,” she whispered. “And for
your information,
caveman
, I bought the condoms in the restroom at the bar. After you told me about Helene.”

He
chuckled and flushed, feeling like an idiot.

“And to answer your
earlier inquiry: not that many,” she went on. “In fact, I’d be willing to bet I’ve had far fewer partners than you have.” Poking him in the chest with her forefinger, she added, “So fess up, man-whore, how many bonny lasses have you slipped the big one to over the years, huh?” Before he could answer, she put both hands on his shoulders and pushed him down in the hay, landing on top of him. Their eyes met with a visceral charge. “And did you just admit that you’re falling for me, Tin Man?”

“I did,” he whispered
, throat tight. “And I am.”

He must have a heart because he could feel it in his chest, swollen with a need he hadn’t known existed until now—a searing, possessive need he found almost unbearable.
He reached up, slipped his fingers into her hair, and pulled her mouth down on his. Coaxing her lips apart, he brushed his tongue against hers, but then drew back and broke away, suddenly aware how strongly he must taste of cigarettes.