All That You Are (6 page)

“What's a booster?”

He must have asked her this a dozen times. “It's a little extra medicine in the shot that makes you not get sick.”

“If I had the med'cine the first time, how come I need some more?”

“You just do.”

“But why?”

“Because.”

Then in his sweet-boy voice, he said, “Mommy?”

Dana looked up from her plate and waited for the question. “Yes, Terran?”

He grinned, that toothless smile of his that made her want to squeeze him. “I love you, Momma.”

Dana melted into a puddle, her heart warmed to her deepest center of being. She fought hot tears, resolving not to let them fall. Tears of unconditional love, tears of having to miss him being with her this week. “Love you, too, baby boy.”

 

T
HE
B
LUE
N
OTE REMAINED
closed on Sundays, giving Dana the much-needed opportunity to play catch-up. Normally, she filed her mountain of paperwork, did the payroll, organized ledger sheets that controlled the expenses and operating costs. She had gained a lot of knowledge since taking over the Blue Note, and the mistakes she'd made early on had merely been learning curves.

On this clear Sunday night, she had an eight-o'clock meeting with a general contractor. She almost canceled so she could enjoy sitting outside. The day had reached nearly sixty degrees, and had been sunny. Days like this were to be savored down to the last second of a late-evening sunset.

But Bruce was going to meet her at the Blue Note and give her a bid on adding an exit door.

She'd gone to high school with Bruce and had known him and his wife, Sandy, for years. When she called, he'd said no problem to coming out at this hour on the weekend.

Dana unlocked the bar, stepped inside and switched the lights on. When nobody was around, the place looked entirely different. A vast empty space of tables with
chairs turned upside down on their tops, a vacant bar and the musician's floor where the jazz notes of the Sax Man's woodwind still filled Dana's memory.

Sadness assailed her, and she wished her dad would come out from the back room and give her a bear hug.

The heavy silence in the cavernous space hurt Dana's ears. She turned on the jukebox and selected a CD recording of her dad playing. Listening to the notes, she lost herself in the song. Then the nostalgic sound of Glenn Miller and his orchestra overtook the ghostly shadows. “Moonlight Serenade” breathed life into the room.

Pouring herself a sparking water with a twist of lime, Dana barely had a moment to think about the fire marshal's demands when Bruce showed up.

He was once the captain of the football team with a promising pro career, but an injury had wiped out that dream and Bruce had stayed behind in Alaska. He'd married Sandy, the head cheerleader, and opened a contracting business. They had four kids ranging in age from fourteen months to eight and a half.

Time hadn't been kind to Bruce. He'd grown a soft belly and his dark hair had thinned. The bridge of his nose had been broken during the game against Juneau, and what had been considered so cool in high school, looked misaligned in later years.

Striding forward, the first thing she noticed was the saying on Bruce's navy T-shirt, and she stifled a laugh. In big block lettering over his chest:
It Takes A Stud To Build A House.

“Hey, Dana. You're looking great, as always.” He'd brought a metal clipboard, the kind that opened and
folded back to expose the notepad inside. A yellow tape measure hooked onto his belt, and he wore a Denver Broncos ball cap.

Never comfortable acknowledging her appearance, she let the comment go. “So, like I told you on the phone, Fire Marshal Bill hit me with some stuff I need to do.”

His gaze lingered on her face then, for a few seconds, lowered before moving back to direct eye contact. She'd worn a short-sleeved Ed Hardy T-shirt, loving the colors and the lively skull with hearts. A pair of blue jean capris encased her lean legs, and she'd kept her wedged leather flip-flops on from earlier in the day.

She noticed a slight chill in the bar, or maybe it was the feeling she got when Bruce gave her a closer look. But she disregarded the tinge of vague discomfort. She was being stupid. She'd known the guy practically her entire life.

“So here's his report.” She led Bruce to the table where she'd laid out the papers.

Bruce studied it, shifted through notations, then said, “You've got some pricey problems to tackle.”

Dread sank her emotions and she felt as if she were drowning. How could she make this work and not go broke? “Even more than what's there?”

“Yeah. I add an exit door and you're going to have to widen the hallway.”

“He didn't say I had to.”

“It's code. You make a door, you better have the room to get out of it. After I do that, you'll need to slap up some fireproof rock down the corridor.” He gave her a placating smile, something that she would have warmed to, but she sensed it had nothing to do with what they were discussing.

He wanted to nail more than drywall.

With a brawny exhalation, he said, “It'll be a fairly straightforward job, but I'll have to put in some hours. And I'm thinking it'll disrupt your business operation, so mornings work well. What time do you get here?”

“I'd really like an estimate, Bruce.” She didn't add that she was tight on funds and needed to make every penny count.

“Not to worry about that.” His gaze fell on her breasts once more. “I'd give you a discount.” He took a step closer to her; she didn't flinch.

“Don't do me any favors,” she said flatly.

“We all need favors, Danalee.” With that comment, Bruce took down a chair and made himself comfortable. “Damn, it feels good to get off my feet. Sandy's had me doing junk for her all day. You'd think the woman had two broken legs. It'll be good to work for a woman who appreciates me.”

The idea of Bruce being here every day left her cold.

“It's nice to get out and be understood. Sandy doesn't give a rip about me, what I want. You were lucky you never married. You can do whatever you feel like.”

“Not true, Bruce. I have a son.”

“Yeah, that's right. Cooper Boyd's kid. He was some lucky son of a gun to have hooked up with you.” Leaning back in the chair, he slowly spread his legs, as if for her to get a view of the bulge in his jeans. “In high school, you would have killed to go out with me, only I never had the brains to see just how damned gorgeous you are. I'd like to treat you right, Dana. I know you'd like it.”

Her heart beat in her ears, a thunderous pounding. The very air in her lungs seemed to be growing thinner. She
knew she came across as don't-mess-with-me during business hours but, in truth, it took a lot of craft and acting to appear unfazed. Deep down, she had a tender heart, and she hated this kind of manhandling, even if it was only vocal.

For a scant second, she feared he might try something and she'd never be able to get him off her.
Don't panic.
She struggled to not bolt for the pepper spray she kept hidden behind the bar.

His hands cupped either side of his inner thighs and he gave her a smile that—yes—she would have loved to have received in high school, but that was then and this was now.

Now, he made her feel sick. She'd trusted him to come over here, had never even given him the slightest encouragement or led him on.

Damn him.

“Bruce, I think—”

“I'd like to propose something.” His eyes shone with a glassy purpose and hunger.

“So would I, slick.”

Mark Moretti's muscled body fleshed out the doorway opening, his voice like a drop of honey. All the tension within her seemed to let go at the same time, and she almost gave a short laugh.

Trusting on blind faith was a stretch for her, but that's what she had to do right now. Deep down, she sensed Moretti wasn't a threat. There was an honest quality to him, and because of that, his unexpected presence brought her relief.

She kept her emotions in check, and then quite matter-of-factly said, “Moretti—good, you're right on time to talk about the construction job.”

An unspoken question flickered in Mark's gaze, but he didn't counter her comment.

She acted as cool as a spring tide, not making eye contact with Bruce as she dismissed him. “Work up an estimate and mail it to me. Thanks for coming out, Bruce. Tell Sandy I said hi.”

With a jerking motion, Bruce grabbed his clipboard, then shot Mark a long stare. The lettering on his T-shirt seemed to scream off his chest.

“That shirt sums you up, doesn't it, stud?” Mark strolled into the bar as if he'd had an appointment to be here. “And I bet you're into performance evaluations.”

Dana gritted her teeth. Mark should have let it go. Now he'd pissed Bruce off.

“You know what, pal,” Bruce said through thick lips, “I wasn't finished here.”

“Sure you were.” Mark halted dead in front of him. The men were matched in height, but Bruce had Mark in bulk twofold. “You want to know why?” Moretti's voice sluiced through the bar, assured and easygoing.

“Why?” Bruce grunted.

“'Cause I've got a hunch that the shiny four-wheel drive out in the parking lot with the bumper sticker that says
Building America, One Erection at a Time
is yours.”

“What of it?”

“Some kids were taking a piss on your tires and writing ‘ride me' on your tailgate with the cans of fluorescent paint you had in the truck bed.”

Bruce bolted for the door, bearing down on it as if he was running for the end zone. As soon as he was out, Mark hitched the lock in place and folded his arms over his chest.

Dana's mouth opened. “Is that true?”

“He'll find out when he gets there.”

“You were lying?”

“Dana, I don't lie very often. Only to men who have heads like buffalos and who think with what's below their belt.”

Unbidden, Dana laughed to the point where she couldn't stop. And it felt so good, she didn't want to.

W
HEN
M
ARK HAD SEEN
the fearful wariness on Dana's face as Bruce propositioned her, a foreign rage had hit him. If he hadn't controlled himself, he could have done something he would have regretted.

Mark remained stationed at the door in case Bruce decided to come back and use his fist to give it a pound. “How'd you find that dum-dum? The yellow pages?”

Dana sobered, her easy laughter fading. Instantly, he missed the lighthearted sound. “I went to high school with him. He was the captain of the football team.”

“He's the captain of dirtbags now.”

“I never thought I'd say this to you—but I agree. I didn't realize he'd changed so much when I called him. But I needed a contractor.”

That information gave him pause again. He only had one explanation for how she knew what he did for a living.

“The Internet makes it easy to find out about a person,” he said with a half ounce of sarcasm. “Nobody's got any anonymity anymore. Not that I care you looked.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Type in a name, click on the search. For a few bucks on your Visa, you can find out all sorts of stuff.” He went toward her, a grin on his mouth and a slight dimple on
his cheek. “All you had to do was ask, and I'd have told you anything you wanted to know about me.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she lifted the chair back onto the tabletop, as if she needed something to do. Then she accused, “How do I know you're not here for the same thing Bruce was?”

He felt a shadow of annoyance touch his face. “Do I look like I smash beer cans on my forehead?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Is that your final answer?”

“Maybe.”

“Then you aren't as smart as I thought you were, Dana. You don't advance to the next round.”

“I'm not playing games with you.”

“Too bad. Sometimes it can be fun if you pick the right game.” Mark's gaze traveled across the ceiling and over the walls. “So what do you want done? I noticed the roof's shot in a few places.”

Her standoffish demeanor was evidence she didn't want to talk to him about her remodel—or whatever it was she needed.

Mark's guess, having overheard her talking to Sam about the fire marshal coming in for an inspection, was she'd been written up. Having taken just a cursory look at the Blue Note, Mark thought she was fortunate the guy hadn't closed her down.

“You must have gotten written up longer than a wish list for Santie Claus,” he said, glancing at the papers on the table. “Show me what you have.”

She made no move for the folder or its paperwork. Doubt set lines in her forehead. “What are you doing here? We're closed.”

“Lights on, music playing. Looked open to me.”

“Well, we're not.”

In an easy voice, he said, “I went to the aviation office to grab our stuff. Nobody there. Saw lights on in the bar and hoped someone inside would have a key. My lucky day—” he gave her a compelling smile “—I found you.”

For a long moment, she said nothing, as if she were mulling over his intervention and whether or not to comment on it. She gave him a slow and hard study. Her almond-shaped eyes grazed over his body, heating his blood to the marrow of his bones.

Mark would have given anything to be able to read her mind. He watched her face, the different expressions that played into her eyes and caught on her mouth.

At length, she said tartly, “I could have handled Bruce.”

“I'm sure of it,” he scoffed, her words not the ones he would have liked to hear. “He's got to be pushing two-sixty, wears a triple XL and you're what—ninety pounds soaking wet, and five feet on tiptoes?”

The comment had her bristling, something he'd probably set out to do only he didn't want to admit it. But her lack of falling all over him in gratitude for saving her from a construction moron who had ground beef for a brain put a dent in Mark's male pride. Women had always gone out of their way to appreciate him.

“Five foot three, and a hundred and eight.” A blush crept over her cheeks as if she'd said too much. Apparently sensitive about her petite stature, a mixture of distress and irritation crossed her face.

Disarming her with a smile, he simply stared. He fought the urge to compare her to the women he'd dated
in the past. But there was no help for it. She was a tiny package with a quick wit and a hot temper that could ignite him. She was nothing like the women he usually felt himself drawn to; he couldn't be more attracted to Dana if she walked naked in front of him.

And that was a thought worth thinking about.

He liked the print shirt she wore. The colors and artwork had attitude. Just like her. White knit fabric caressed her waist and emphasized her slender shape.

Taking in a sharp breath, she folded her arms over small but attractive breasts.

The defensiveness had to have been perfected over the years. While all people had a history, hers had to have been tough. He wondered what she'd be like without hidden scars. She must have been hurt pretty bad to be so protective of her emotions.

Moving past him, she said, “I've got a key to Fish Tail.”

She went to unlock the door, and he laid his hand over hers on the knob.

This close, he absorbed her body heat, and her fragrance filled his senses. His shoulder width and height devoured her, but she didn't move. Her lips, delicately made, looked soft and full. He fought the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her, stroke her glossy hair and keep her close.

“I'll go first.” Gravelly and thick, his voice didn't sound like his own in his ears. When she narrowed her eyes, he clarified, “In case Paul Bunyan's still around.”

Outside, the evening had turned damp and cold. The harbor lights were like fuzzy yellow orbs bathing the Blue Note's entry in a pale glow. Shadows cast murky
shapes on the walkway. You'd have to be a cat to see clearly and know if anyone was moving in on you.

In earnest concern, he took her fingers, knitting them within his own. Surprise widened her eyes, but a swift jerk couldn't get rid of his protective gesture. He held fast. “You walk to your car alone after you close?”

She no longer flinched, but turned loosely toward the aviation office and continued to head that direction. Her stiff posture begged him to release her. “Usually.”

A buffered anger welled inside him. “You shouldn't do that. Anything could happen to you.”

“I'm still standing. So far, so good.” And then she slid out of his grasp to open the floatplane building.

She switched the light on, and the booking desk came into view, strewn with brochures and paperwork piles. It was the airplane model that caught his attention.

“Your pilot make that?” he asked, wondering about the connection between the two of them.

Casually responding, she spoke while heading for the back. “Yes, it's Sam's.”

“Cozy that he gave you a key to his office,” Mark said, unable to contain an unwanted jealous note.

“It's not his office. It's mine.” Then she smiled, as if gloating that she'd gotten the better of him. Surprise must have marked his eyes, giving him away. “I own Fish Tail Air. The three airplanes and this building. Sam and two other pilots fly for me.”

Mark digested her news. She spoke with an emotional pride; he felt a tenderness in her words, as if there were more meaning to the place than what she let on.

Contrary to her tough talk, she had a softness inside that came to light. He'd only seen traces of this emotion
in her before. The layer added yet another complexity about her he found interesting.

“Well, aren't you the complex woman,” he remarked after a long moment.

While Dana shifted things in the back room, Mark gazed at the surroundings. Framed photos on the wall drew his eyes. Celebrities standing next to a floatplane. He recognized some of the actors from a hit television show. With strings of salmon and halibut raised behind them on scales, they mugged for the camera with a pilot—not Sam. Someone else. Looked like Sam though. Had the same eyes.

One photo demanded his attention and he zeroed in on it. An African-American man stood with his arm around another guy. The younger of the two men resembled Dana in many ways. Lifting the frame off the wall, he angled it toward the light to study the images closer.

“Put it back.” Dana's voice held a strong note of reproach.

He held on to the picture, neither looking further nor replacing it on the wall.

The next thing he knew, Dana was lunging toward him, trying to swipe it out of his hand. He drew back, the photo high in the air with his arm extended.

Tackling his chest with a body thrust, she knocked him into the door's edge, her breath heated against his neck. Hands grappled to take the picture from him, but her sloppy effort was only a minor nuisance. He could take her down over his knee before she had the chance to suck in another breath.

Mildly confused by her outburst, with one hand he angled her in a different position away from his shirt
front. With her energetic charge, the hard point of her elbow had been dangerously close to a certain area.

With a husky whisper, he informed, “Simmer down, Dana. I'll put it back.”

He slowly released her and she didn't fight him anymore.

The photograph resumed its spot on the cluttered wall. Using his knuckle, he corrected the tilt. Getting the top level, he skimmed the photo for clues. He couldn't figure out why she'd gotten so bent out of shape.

Turning to Dana, he asked, “If you don't want anyone looking at it, why do you have it hanging on the wall?”

The steady rise and fall of her breasts, the soft sucking of her wet lips trying to catch her breath, almost made him forget what he questioned her about. Black hair fell around her face, a tangle of sexy wisps. Raking it back, she took in a gulp of air.

“There's all your stuff.” She pointed to gear piled on the floor. “And your ice chest.”

“I take it you're not going to answer.” It was a curiosity to find a woman so damned standoffish, yet fascinating.

Going around her, he hoisted two ditty bags on his shoulder, then grabbed the tackle boxes and rods. He couldn't manage the Igloo at the same time. “I'll have to make another trip.”

Silently, she gathered the ice chest and followed behind him to Jeff's rental truck. They'd gotten it back late that afternoon and Jeff's wallet had been on the truck floor. A credit to Spivey's integrity, no money had been taken—until Earl asked for the impound fee, and handed over the ticket from the police department.

Jeff had been so irritated by the amount it cost him to park in a public lot he went back to the condo to have a beer and mess with the software on his laptop. At that point, Mark volunteered to get their fishing equipment.

The parking lot's asphalt glittered with busted glass pieces by the Dumpster.

“Watch where you're walking,” he cautioned over his shoulder. “You're going to step on glass and cut your foot.”

“Not hardly.”

Settling the tackle into the truck's bed, he snorted. “So we're doing that dance again—the ‘I say one thing and you say another'?”

“I walk in this parking lot with my flip-flops on all the time and I've never had a problem.”

“You should have a problem with it.” He frowned, glancing at the black-cloaked veil of the parking lot. Set off from Dock Street, a person would have to scream at the top of their lungs to be heard. “It's dark out here. Any degenerate might be sitting around waiting to jump you. That potbellied quarterback could be hunkered down behind the wheel of his four-by-four, pumped up to rush you.”

She gave the area a furtive glance, biting her lip as if he'd made an impression on her to be—at the very least—momentarily concerned.

As if to validate her lack of concern, she declared, “There's nobody here.”

Lowering his mouth intimately close to her ear, he whispered, “I am.”

 

N
OT SINCE
C
OOPER TOOK HER
to court over his visitation rights had Dana felt such frustration, compounded by the feeling of total lack of control.

A glance out the window, and she saw Mark's truck was still there.

For the past thirty minutes, she'd holed herself up inside the Blue Note, hoping he'd drive away and leave her alone. Trapped with only her thoughts to pass the time, she was going stir-crazy. The harder she tried to ignore the truth, the more it persisted.

Tonight had been a turning point.

Mark had touched her, held her hand within his own. She'd fought to disguise the internal tremble she'd felt over the smooth warmth of his flesh. No man who came to the bar was allowed to get physically close. While it wasn't something she'd made an announcement about, everyone knew Danalee Jackson was off-limits.