A Great Kisser (7 page)

Well, one of the other things he’d recommended was walking, swimming, or biking. She walked—ran, really—all day, every day, it seemed, for her job. And while she wouldn’t drown if she ever fell overboard, swimming for distance, or style for that matter, wasn’t ever going to be part of her repertoire. Bike riding, on the other hand, had sounded like fun. Between riding on the Mall, around the Tidal Basin, or all the trails through Rock Creek Park, she had plenty to choose from. She’d decided that would be her gift to herself, her way of distressing. She’d even looked forward to doing it, imagined herself pedaling around town. She’d just…never gotten around to finding the time to actually get a bike. It had been on her to-do list. Along with making time to ride it.

She’d ceremoniously burned the list the day she quit her job. She didn’t need reminders now. Her calendar was wide open.

“So,” she said, “no time like the present, then.” Because the present was definitely not the time to court a migraine-level headache. It could be the thin air, but more likely it was the only serious remaining source of stress in her life, which, when said and done, all boiled down to dinner. This evening. At seven.

Fifteen minutes later she was riding what they called the “townie” model, which essentially meant it had a bigger seat for her bigger caboose. One look at the narrow, rock-hard wedge that served as a mountain bike seat had her quickly swallowing any vanity she might have had on the subject, which had been ever-so-gently broached by the guy at the rental desk, and opting for the biggest, softest townie model in stock. It was pink. Very pink. She’d been trapped in navy blue and pinstripes for so long, she’d just instinctively pointed at it. The rental guy couldn’t possibly know how un-pink her life had been. But he didn’t laugh, or even look at her funny. He’d merely smiled as if it made perfect sense for her and handed her a matching helmet and water bottle. She decided the rental guy was her new best friend.

After a wobbling start in which she almost took out a sidewalk rack of fleece vests and an entire folding table lined with Crocs, she finally managed to find her pace, only to have to stop at the first corner as the one and only light in town turned green for cross-moving traffic. So, she took the opportunity to check out the map her new BFF had given her. He’d explained which trails were accessible to her on her “townie” and which were steep, mountain-bike-only trails. She didn’t bother to even look at those. This was supposed to be fun and pleasurable, after all. And she’d already risked death today in the gum-wrapper-size plane she’d flown out here in. No need to taunt fate twice.

There were various points of interest on the map as well. The ski resort, of course, along with the Olympic training grounds, the Nicklaus-designed golf course, the rodeo and county fairgrounds—just west of town—and a wee bit farther up…hunh. “McKenna Flight School,” she read out loud. “What do you know. He’s a town landmark.” Or his school was. She wondered again about what role he played, if any, in local politics, or just as a local businessman. She’d had him pegged as the sort who kept his focus on his own work and out of others’ business, but then, what did she really know about him? “Other than he didn’t throw you under the bus when Arlen’s secretary had come calling.” And if that was all she had to go on—okay, that and the fact that he was lust on a stick—then she’d extend him the benefit of the doubt. For now.

She glanced back over her shoulder and realized she’d come farther down Main Street than she’d thought. Another glance at her watch showed she still had more than an hour before she was to report for dinner. Which felt more appointment than social engagement. She toyed again with the idea of trying to call her mother to break the ice a little, but she really wasn’t ready for all the variables that action might lead to.

She purposely hadn’t gone into any of the shops, either. Other than the rental guy, Melissa, and Debbie at the motel, she hadn’t talked to any locals. “So much for your plan of playing super sleuth.” She had a whole list of questions she’d planned on asking folks once she got into town, find out what kind of man Arlen Thompson really was, especially to the people who knew him best. Riding herd on the media during Todd’s campaign had taught her a great deal about the dogged persistence of journalists and how they wheedled information out of even the most taciturn delegate. She’d always loathed their whatever-it-takes mentality, but now that she was on the fact-finding end of the stick, the education she’d inadvertently picked up was quite useful. Or would have been if she hadn’t landed in Cedar Springs as some kind of pseudo–local celebrity.

She looked up as the walk light came on, and tucked the map back into her pocket before setting off again. The fact that she happened to be heading in the direction of the flight school was strictly coincidence. Jake had been kind enough to get her into town, then leave her be. She thought about their “date” and wondered if he’d even remember it come Sunday. That was days away from now. Or, perhaps after hearing the buzz of gossip spreading about the mayor’s estranged stepdaughter being in town, he might decide she was too much trouble.

It should bother her, or at the very least be a red flag of some perspective-giving sort, that the idea he might back out on the date disappointed her the way it did. But, at the moment, he was the only person here she felt she could trust, ridiculous as that sounded. And now his school was on the map. She usually went with her gut, and she was rarely wrong. But maybe all the stress, combined with her rather abrupt, life-altering decision, had diluted her instincts. After all, she still had no idea what she was going to do with her life. Not exactly an instinctive move on her part.

Still, she continued pedaling without turning back.

J
ake hung up the phone and raked his hand through his hair. Again. It was amazing he hadn’t pulled it all out. He’d spent the better part of what was left of his day after returning from Holden, talking to the guy he hoped was going to be his first corporate sponsor, then updating his crew, who were all chomping at the bit on whether or not to plan on being ready and available for the National Air Races next month. To which he, yet again, had to tell them, he didn’t know.

The most recent debate was on how, exactly, the corporate sponsorship of the
Betty Sue
would be marketed. Jake was not going to slap their company name on
Betty Sue
’s perfectly restored and historically accurate skin. He’d agreed to a whole raft of corporate swag they wanted to hand out during the races, but he balked on plastering anything on the plane itself.
Betty Sue
had always been, and always would be, true to her original paint job. This was not NASCAR.

The corporate boys—bankers and stock traders mostly, all connected with the same investment firm, but more important, decade-long frat brothers—were still, at heart, a bunch of kids. Really rich kids, in this case, who were really excited about having a part in one of the fastest races on earth, and just happened to have a whole lot of spare change between them to make their latest dream come true. But they couldn’t agree on anything to save their damn lives. Jake wouldn’t put himself through it, and realized why his grandfather had balked at ever allowing someone’s checkbook to dictate how he was going to take care of his baby, much less race her.

But Jake was more pragmatic about it, and more realistic. Patrick McKenna—Paddy to his friends and grandchildren alike—hadn’t minded the side show aspect of the fair and air show circuit, and had made enough doing them to just barely maintain
Betty Sue
and, along with his old war buddies, get her race ready each year. Jake didn’t really have a love for that part of the flying culture. He just wanted to fly. He loved the history of the planes, and the restoration work was very fulfilling for him. That it all culminated once a year in a week filled with heart-pounding racing…that was enough. And, for all that, he wanted to win, dammit. He knew she could do it. And now, he finally had a chance to put
Betty Sue
at the front of the pack. With a little—okay, a lot—of help from Roger and his investment banker–stockbroker frat buddies.

“I miss you, Paddy McKenna,” he grumbled. “I hope I do you proud. But enough already with this crap.” He understood now more than ever why his grandfather had balked at allowing others to dictate anything having to do with
Betty Sue
’s upkeep. Before he’d begun sticking with the show circuit as his only funding, Paddy had organized fund-raisers and even taken on one of the local banks as a partner for a short, ill-fated time way back when Jake was in grade school and the annual race had just been created in Reno. Paddy had naturally wanted to show off his baby, and Jake couldn’t blame him. He’d bought the beat-up World War II fighter in 1955 and had spent almost every second of his spare time, along with all of his spare money, restoring it. Taking on his two grandchildren hadn’t helped his hobby, but he made up for it by instilling the same love he had for flying, and old planes, in his grandson.

It had been his grandfather’s dream to win the Gold Medallion race in Reno pretty much from the year they’d introduced the event, and given the dreams he’d made come true for Jake, it was the very least Jake could do to see it through. But after five long years spent just getting back in the race, and another five trying to do it Paddy’s way, and failing, Jake had caved and finally looked to outside sponsorship as the only way to put
Betty Sue
in real contention. “And goddamn, Paddy, you’re right. They’re a major pain in my ass, but I’m trying.” He shoved away from the small desk crammed into the makeshift office in the corner of the secondary McKenna Flight School hangar, the one Paddy had built to house only one plane, and walked back over to
Betty Sue
.

“You are a pretty, pretty lady,” he said, still just as in awe of her now as he’d been at age six, when he’d gotten his first close-up look at her. “And every bit as high maintenance as one, too,” he added as he bent over to start throwing tools back into his tool chest.

“Well, on principle alone, I should argue that, or the Secret Society of Women Who Can Take Care of Themselves might revoke my membership.”

Jake was fighting a smile, even as he tossed the last wrench into the drawer and turned around. “If I said present company excepted, would that keep me from having to register for the Misogynists of America Club?”

She braced her hands on the handlebars of the pinkest bike he’d ever seen and tilted her head, as if giving serious assessment to the question. “I’d have to get to know you better before I can make a judgment like that.”

“Well, at least only one of us is making sweeping generalizations.”

She smiled, and suddenly the frustration over the phone call with Roger was forgotten. “True,” she said. “Someone needs to keep things grounded in reality.” She glanced at the plane as she slipped her helmet off. “Clearly, that wouldn’t be you.”

“Probably not.”

“I’m sorry to barge in. Or roll in, as the case may be. I rented a bike.”

“Yes. I can see that. Hope you got a really good deal on it.”

“Now, why do you say that? And, be careful, your membership application might ride on your answer.”

“It’s just…not surprising that it was available.”

“Nicely done,” she said with a wry smile. “The people I work with would be impressed with your…mediation skills. Do you want a job? I hear one is available.”

“I’ll pass. Actively involving myself in politics of any kind gives me the hives. My apologies.”

“Apology accepted. I understand the reaction.”

“How did you get interested in politics?”

Her smile spread. “You mean, for a girl?”

“No. I actually adore women, by the way. Especially women who know their own minds. My curiosity was straightforward. I honestly don’t know why anyone is drawn to it.”

“For all the altruistic reasons that a person who really thinks they can make a difference is drawn to.”

“And now?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I’d still like to make a difference, but I decided to focus my energies a bit differently.”

“Such as?”

She paused, then said, “My policies and new strategies are still in the developmental stage.”

“Ah,” he said, the epitome of nonjudgmental. “Nicely done.”

She did a little curtsy, which sent her straddled bike bobbling and its rider hopping on one foot as she tried to keep it, and herself, upright.

He moved swiftly forward, reflexively reaching for her, but she righted herself and the bike before he got to her.

“I’m really not a menace to society,” she assured him. “But perhaps they should at least make you do a little course or something before letting a person loose on the streets with this thing.”

He was standing much closer to her now and was disappointed to see her freckles had vanished once again beneath a thin veneer of makeup. In fact, he rather liked the bedraggled, foggy-framed, sodden version of Lauren Matthews to the freshly showered and expertly made-up version.

“What?” she asked, making him aware that he was staring. She patted her head. “Helmet hair, right? Come on, you’ve seen me worse.”

Her hair was perfect. Too perfect, all sleeked back in a shiny ponytail. Yeah, messy and makeup free was definitely better. More…her. Which made no sense since, clearly, he was looking at the “real” Lauren Matthews. “No, not a hair out of place.” More’s the pity. “I wouldn’t have picked you for a fan of girly colors, that’s all.”

“Why wouldn’t you have thought me a girly-girl? Because of the lovely raccoon-mascara eyes and stringy wet hair I was sporting when we first met?”

“I really haven’t the faintest clue why. Maybe it’s knowing your Washington background and making subconscious assumptions. I’m not usually the type to jump to conclusions. But, it…surprised me, that’s all.”

“So…liking pink and being girly is a bad thing?”

“Not at all.”

She laughed. “Liar.”

“I’m not lying. A woman being feminine is great. Who doesn’t enjoy a very feminine female?”

“You, I think. I’m guessing you prefer your women outdoorsy, natural, with a few tomboy tendencies thrown in for good measure.” He paused just long enough for her to laugh again. “Nailed it in one,” she said, sounding smug.

“We all have preferences. Doesn’t mean I think the alternatives are a bad thing.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not much of an athlete, and although I’d be willing, you really wouldn’t want me anywhere near a power tool. Not if you value your extremities and keeping your arterial flow strictly internal. And, to be perfectly honest, working in a job traditionally held by a man, wearing overly conservative, asexually tailored business suits so I’ll be taken remotely seriously, for the very fact that I’m built like a very feminine female, one who refuses to sleep her way to the top—”

“I thought there were laws regarding that kind of thing these days.”

“Yes, there are. Laws regarding behavior that a smart woman finds other ways to deal with, because blowing the whistle on your male coworkers or superiors, which is the dominant gender percentage of your workforce, is not the best way to win friends and influence people. Namely the very people who would be in charge of promoting you.”

“So, you’re more Clark Kent than Lois Lane. Cloaking your super powers under a perfectly tailored suit.”

She smiled. “Only if Clark likes to wear supremely feminine undergarments under those perfectly tailored suits.”

He smiled at that, but his body was having an entirely more exaggerated reaction to the very sudden, very unexpected mental images that sprang to mind.

“My point was that, surrounded by a distinctly black suit and red power tie work world, of which I am also a part…I liked being able to look down at my sensibly manicured nails and know that inside my sensible pumps are pink polished toes, and that, possibly, under my straight-cut, unflattering skirt are stockings that aren’t necessarily constricting me in places I don’t need to be constricted, and be reminded at the end of another grueling, seventy-hour work week, where I have to prove my worth repeatedly to the Boys Club, that I am female and really—really—enjoy being one. So, I saw the pink bike, sitting there in a sea of blue and green and black ones, and thought,
mine
.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. He couldn’t. Not without possibly growling, or worse. Which would be an entirely too Neanderthal response that would give her far too much leverage. All the leverage, really. Which, he was swiftly learning, she was likely to have anyway. But no point in revealing his weak spot any earlier than necessary. But sensible, sleek hair on the outside, and garters and pink toenail polish underneath? That…well, that was just playing dirty.

She finally laughed and said, “Hard to believe I ever conformed, I know.”

“Actually, I was thinking that I can’t imagine there is a tailor on earth who could make you look asexual.”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, but it was the flush that rose to her cheeks that had him permanently changing his opinion on the color pink.

“Yes, well, it’s been…something of a challenge.”

“I’ve always thought most of the men in Washington haven’t a clue what they’re doing, and the fact they prefer you buttoned up and down just proves it.”

“Your support is appreciated. You really should reconsider the job proposition. We could use more men like you on the Hill.”

That earned a short laugh. “No, you couldn’t. Trust me.” He closed the remaining distance between them and rested his hand on one of the handlebars. “You want to park this thing for a bit?”

She lifted her face to his and he had to resist the sudden, very urgent need to rub at her nose with his thumb until he uncovered a freckle or two.

“I didn’t mean to intrude on your work. I’ve already taken up far too much of your time today as it is. I just…”

He ducked his chin to catch her gaze when she looked away. It was so uncustomary for the woman he was coming to know, he found himself curious. “You just what?”

“Your flight school was on the map that the guy at the rental shop gave me, and I was heading through town, and…I guess I sort of ended up here. I was curious.”

“About?”

“What a flight school looked like.” She held his gaze then. “You.”

He was already halfway hard from the previous mental image parade, but that single word made him grow a step harder. He liked her better when she was direct…his body clearly did as well. But he also liked that, at times, she was flustered and talked really fast, and that, when he teased her, she either dished it right back, or got the sexiest blush, and that he never knew which thing was going to get which reaction. “I’m not all that fascinating.”

“I feel like Dorothy, very far away from Kansas.”

“We’re in Colorado, not Oz.”

“It might as well be, compared to home. You were right, about the mountains. Now that the rain has stopped, it’s hard to really take them all in, the immensity of them. I love our mountains back home, but they aren’t anything like this. I’ve been around them my whole life, but they don’t prepare you for anything like this.”

“You have ancient hills back east. Rolling and graceful. Ours are newer, more jagged and raw, not yet worn down by time, and a bit more challenging because of it. But I think yours are beautiful, too.”

“You’ve been to the East Coast?”

“I’ve been to almost every part of our country.”

“Oh,” she said, but didn’t say more, despite the questions he could see in her eyes.

“You want to know more. So ask me.”

“I’m being nosy and rude and taking your time, when I really should be focusing on preparing myself for the inquisition later this evening.”