Carolina Blues (16 page)

Jack sighed. At least it hadn’t peed everywhere. The shelter volunteer had explained that the kitten would use the litter box instinctively to hide its scent from other predators. She hadn’t warned him about the climbing. Or told him that his new boat companion would scuttle under the furniture like a cockroach every time Jack walked into a room.

Ignoring the cat, he stripped off his shirt and secured his weapon and utility belt in the onboard locker.

The water beating on his neck relaxed him. It didn’t take much imagination to summon Lauren into the shower with him, her dark hair wet around her shoulders, her pretty breasts pebbled with drops, that intriguing sparkle against her bare belly . . .

By the time he strode naked out of the shower and found his phone lit up like a Christmas tree, he was ready for her. Smiling, he picked up his cell phone, prepared to call her back.

CALLER
UNKNOWN
,
read the screen.

And the area code was familiar. He frowned. Very familiar. He pressed to return the call, a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. His cop’s instincts kicking in
.

“Jack?” said Renee’s voice.

Too late.

“How’d you get this number?” Jack said and then kicked himself for asking. Renee was a high-ranking police officer on a special security task force. She could get any number she wanted.

“Your mother gave it to my mother.”

That was worse. Ma had vehemently taken her son’s side over that cheating
puttana
he’d married. But their families had grown up together. Their mothers had served together on the parish altar guild for twenty years. If Renee’s mother had asked his mother . . . Yeah, Ma would have a hard time saying no. But it still stung.

“What do you want?”

“Jesus, Jack. I have to want something to give you a call?”

“That’s usually how it works,” he said.

She laughed. “How well you know me.” Her voice softened. “Maybe I just want to hear how you’re doing.”

He waited for the familiar rush of anger. She had betrayed him. With his partner. And then used her connections to encourage him to resign. But the anger, once so dark and hot, felt pale and cold. Mostly he felt tired. Tired and very, very cautious.

“Fine.”

“Come on, Jack. I know you, too. I know that nothing-bothers-me voice. Tell me about the new job.”

“It’s fine.”

“That’s all? ‘Fine’? You used to be a little more enthusiastic about your work, Jack.”

He used to be more enthusiastic about a lot of adrenaline-charged, high-risk behaviors. SWAT team. Detective squad. Marriage to Renee.

“It suits me.”

“Writing traffic tickets and busting underage parties in Mayberry? I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you want,” he said. “I gotta go.”

“Hot date?” she teased. Because, yeah, she did know him.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” For the first time, she sounded uncertain.

In the twelve years they were together, he’d never made a big deal out of Friday night. Dinner out on her birthday and their anniversary, weekends with her family or his . . . He’d assumed that was enough. Before the fights over dishes, laundry, having kids, before Frank, maybe that had been the problem—him assuming things.

The thought made him uncomfortable.

“You take care of yourself,” he said gently, and got off the phone.

Maybe he should take Lauren out to dinner, he thought.

On a Friday night? Good luck with that, pal
. The local restaurants would all be slammed with vacationers out for one more seafood dinner before their rentals ended tomorrow. Even the pricey Brunswick wasn’t likely to have a table on such short notice.

Though they’d probably make room for the chief of police. He could call.

Jack paused with his shirt half over his head. What did it mean, that after one time with Lauren he was thinking of taking her to a candles-and-white-tablecloths kind of place?

Nothing, he decided, and yanked the shirt on.

He was hungry, that’s all.

He stuffed his phone into his pocket, snagged a beer from the galley. The gray kitten crept from under the table and crouched by the door.

Jack lowered the bottle. “I’m supposed to keep you in an enclosed space,” he told it. “Until you get used to me.”

The cat fixed him with huge green-blue eyes and emitted a piercing mew.

“You want to go outside, I have to hold you,” he warned. “You hate that.”

A blink.

“Yeah, that’s what you say now. Let’s see what you do when I try it.”

He put down his beer. Crossed the salon. The little cat froze at the sound of his footsteps, cringed from the approach of his hand. He scooped it up anyway. It twisted—one second of clawing panic—and then, much to his surprise, collapsed bonelessly against him. Like a lapdog.

Or a baby.

He rubbed its chin with his thumb, undeniably flattered when a rusty purr vibrated from its throat. Jesus, he was pathetic. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to end up like one of those old ladies, living alone with thirty or forty cats for company.

Maybe he should move back north, like his ma wanted him to do, take a job in security somewhere, let one of his sisters-in-law fix him up with one of her single friends, a nice Catholic girl from the neighborhood.

He wasn’t looking for true love. Just somebody to share the loneliness and maybe raise a family with. He was thirty-eight years old, for Christ’s sake. He didn’t want to turn into one of those doddering dads on the sidelines, too old to teach his kids to throw a ball or ride a bike. Too out of it to know when they were screwing up.

He grabbed his beer and carried the cat out on deck.

Somebody was biking along the wharf on one of the heavy tourist bikes. A woman. Lauren, wobbling along on big fat tires with a bright pink basket, her skirt working its way up her thighs as she pumped along.

She had great legs, firm and smooth and lightly golden, and her dark hair lifted in the breeze from the sea, and everything inside him lifted, too.

She skidded to a halt at the edge of the dock, bracing herself with both feet, trying to balance the weight of her basket. What the hell did she have in there?

She tilted her head, studying his face, like she wasn’t sure of her welcome. “Hi.”

He was so glad to see her that his throat constricted. He unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Hi.”

Those wide, dark eyes narrowed a fraction. “Everything all right?”

My ex-wife called
, he thought of saying, but that seemed like a lousy opening to an evening that suddenly looked much better. Especially when Lauren had biked all the way out here to see him. Why ruin the mood? “Fine.”

Her look said she wasn’t buying his answer, not completely, but instead of challenging him, she smiled. “I brought dinner. Mind if I come aboard?”

He set down his beer. “Let me give you a hand.”

“I’ve got it.” Her gaze dropped to where he cradled the cat with one hand against his chest. Her face got all soft. “Aw. You still have the kitty.”

He nodded.

She unstraddled the bike—her skirt hiked up even more, very nice—and kicked at the stand. “I thought you were giving it to someone to take to the shelter.”

He shrugged, embarrassed. “Yeah, well, the volunteer was busy, so . . .”

“So you had no choice. You
had
to adopt it.” Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were warm. “What a—”

“Sucker?” he suggested.

“I was going to say nice guy, but I know you don’t like that word.”

He looked away, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

She hauled two bags from the bike basket and approached the boat. The plastic handles fluttered in the wind, startling the kitten, who squirmed.

Jack adjusted his hold. “Easy, tiger.”

Lauren smiled. “That’s her name? Tiger?”

He hesitated. Glanced down at the stripes, gray on gray.
Sure, why not?
“His name.” He’d checked. “Yeah.”

She arched a brow. “Big name for a little cat.”

“A guy’s gotta dream.”

He took the bags from her with one hand, setting them on deck, and then helped her aboard. Her hand was warm and firm in his. She smelled good, sun-warmed and sexy. There was a moment when he held her hand and her gaze met his, when he could have kissed her.

And then she bent to fuss with the bags at her feet, and the moment was lost. When she straightened, her face was pink and she didn’t quite meet his eyes.
Damn
.

“Let me put Tiger here in the cabin,” he said. “What can I get you to drink?”

“I brought wine.” She glanced at the Carolina Lager on the table. “But if you’d rather have beer—”

“Wine’s good,” he said firmly. “I’ll get glasses.”

It took him a minute or five to settle the cat. When he came out, Lauren had everything set up on some kind of picnic cloth she must have borrowed from Tess: a couple cheeses from the pricey shop in the harbor, bread from the bakery, a fat bunch of grapes, containers of olives and shrimp salad.

He looked at the trouble she’d gone to, the cloth napkins, the bottle of wine and felt a pinch of something. Regret, maybe. He needed to step up his game. Next time he would make reservations.

“I was going to call you,” he said.

She anchored the lid from the olives under the plastic container. “You don’t have my number. Hard to booty text without a number.”

“Booty text,” he repeated slowly.

“Or booty call. Whatever.” She didn’t sound mad. Although with women, you never knew.

Jack frowned. She wasn’t a booty call to him. She was . . .

He covered both her busy hands with one of his. She looked up in surprise, glowing and exotic in the setting sun, the tiny jewel winking. He leaned forward and kissed her, long and soft and slow, until her eyelids fluttered closed and her hands flexed under his.

He raised his head. “Hello, Lauren.”

Her lips curved. “Hello, Jack.” She opened her eyes. Exhaled. “We keep screwing up, don’t we?”

He checked her expression. Definitely not mad, he saw with relief. “I’m willing to practice with you,” he offered, straight-faced. “Until we get it right.”

She grinned, widening her eyes in mock concern. “If we get any better, we’ll kill each other.”

She was talking about sex. He laughed, as she obviously intended him to, and reached for the wine. She’d even packed a corkscrew.

“This looks great,” he said, nodding at the spread. She’d transformed his deck to someplace he wanted to be.

“I’m glad you like it. I owed you for last night.”

His brows twitched together. Last night he’d walked out on her to take a call.

“Last night,” she prompted. “The inspiration?”

He thought back. They’d been saying good night, talking about her writing, and then he’d kissed her.

Inspiration
, he’d teased.

Her eyes had gleamed with humor, her smile rueful in the moonlight.
Am I supposed to thank you now?

Thank me tomorrow.

He shook his head. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to.”

He stared at her, oddly humbled. Shaken.

In the past year, he’d gotten used to doing for himself. Cooking for himself. Caring for himself. He’d almost forgotten how it felt to have someone do for him. Freely. Because she
wanted
to. Renee always had a hidden agenda, a secret scorecard on which he always lost.

He cleared his throat. “Guess that makes me a lucky guy.”

Her grin flashed. “Lucky comes later. Pour the wine, will you?”

He filled her glass. “How’d the writing go today?”

She paused cutting the bread, like he’d surprised her. “It’s going.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Yes.” She picked up the bunch of grapes. Put it down. “I had . . . I guess you’d call it a breakthrough,” she confessed, almost shyly.

“What sort of breakthrough?”

She looked at him doubtfully. “We don’t have to talk about my work. Most of what I do, writing . . . It’s kind of boring if you’re not another writer. You don’t have to be polite with me.”

Yeah, he did. He was sleeping with her. That entitled her to be treated with respect. But more than that, he was genuinely interested. He’d read her book—her first book—but he still didn’t know what made her tick. She was a puzzle to him.

He’d always liked puzzles.

He put some cheese on some bread and offered it to her. “If you were a cop,” he said, “and you told me you caught a break in a case, I would know what that meant. But I don’t know what a breakthrough is for a writer.”

“Well.” She swallowed. “I don’t see the end yet. But for the first time, I can see how I might get there.”

He frowned. “How do you know you’re on the right road if you can’t see the destination?”

He wasn’t talking about her book anymore. Not entirely.

And she knew it, too. She smiled her funny smile. “I guess we’ll find out.”

“Life’s about the journey, not the destination?” he asked with heavy irony.

“Since we’re all headed to the grave, then, yes. ‘Thus, though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run.’”

He liked the way she talked, her attitude, her optimism. Maybe he liked them all a little too much. “What is that, poetry?”

She nodded. “Andrew Marvell, ‘To His Coy Mistress.’”

“Yeah?” He grinned sharply to cover a sudden sense of inadequacy. “You know the one about the girl from Nantucket?”

She didn’t get pissy. She laughed. “All I’m saying is, life’s too short. When you’re not sure of your destination, you might as well enjoy the trip.”

He didn’t entirely agree, but he liked talking to her. He couldn’t imagine having this conversation with the guys back home. Or Renee.
Marvell. Jesus
. “You religious, Lauren?”

“I believe that what we do in this life, the choices we make, matter,” she said carefully. “But whether they matter to some afterlife . . . I don’t know.”

Not Ma’s Catholic girl.

“So how does this thing with us fit into your travel plans? You’re a pretty girl. Smart. Well educated. A couple of book deals under your belt. What are you doing with a thirty-eight-year-old divorced cop from Philly?”