Hands On (9 page)

“I’m not sure yet. Give me a sec.” Ginnie held on to the doorway, taking deep breaths. “When it rains, it pours,” she finally muttered. “And then your house crashes down, and then… Okay. Where’s the hidden camera?”

Harry looked pained. His expression was half-angry, half-guilty. “I should have put that trunk in the house.”

“I’m the one who told you to leave it on the porch.” She remembered her cavalier words, her trust that it wouldn’t be stolen, her certainty she’d be right back to pick it up, and could kick herself. Somebody else had picked it up. Somebody who had a sport wagon to put it in. “I can’t believe he did that.”

“You know who it was?”

“My ex. Rick must’ve tracked me down. Gold-colored sport wagon with big, shiny chrome wheels? Raiders bumper stickers?”

He nodded. “I didn’t notice the bumper stickers. Ginnie, it’ll be okay. We’ll find him and we’ll get everything back.”

Harry’s kind voice almost made her lose it. And he’d said “we”, as if they were a couple. When she started sniffling, he moved in and enclosed her in a strong, Harry-scented hug. She was grateful for it. “That jerk. When I left him, he’d said he was glad to see the back of me. Then my mom gave him my new address, and he drives up here to stomp all over my roof, and now he’s back to steal from me? He must’ve driven around and seen my car parked in front of your place. Why didn’t I pick up the trunk sooner? Why did my mom give him my new address? Why do either of them think I’ll go back to being a doormat and do what they say?” Her voice was muffled against his shirt, but she didn’t move. It felt way too nice.

“First things first.” Harry stroked her back soothingly. “I’ve already called the theft in to a police officer friend of mine, and also to a few unofficial sources of information. We’ll get results soon, I promise. Second, you were upset before I arrived. Why?”

She remembered why she’d been too distracted to pick up the trunk. “I lost my job at Helping Hands.” There, she’d said it. The last remaining symbol of her new beginning had exploded in her face. She was meant to be nothing, unwanted by everyone. “It was unanimous by the mucketies in charge. With the shrunken funding, one of the managers had to go, and they voted for it to be me. They said—for my own good, they told me—I should work on my faults of being overly pushy, too controlling and not a team player. My career is over.”

She felt a tidal wave of sadness and self-pity welling up in her and would have soaked Harry’s shirt even more, but Harry suddenly vibrated.

It threw off her emotions enough to hiccup instead of bawl. “What…?”

Harry pulled the vibrating cell phone from the shirt pocket on the opposite pec, flipped it open. “Yes?” She stepped back as she felt him tense. “I see. I’ll be right there.”

She pulled herself together, then looked the question at him.

He answered, grim. “Your stuff. It’s been found.”

At the tone of his voice, a little chill went through her. “I’ll get dressed.”

He stared at her. “You know, your career is not over. Just that one position, which wasn’t a great fit for you anyway. You’re talented, beautiful and strong.” His vehemence was like a warm shot of adrenaline to her battered soul.

“Thank you,” she breathed, plucking at her nightwear. “I’m not usually such a basket case.”

“You’re a beautiful basket case.”

Ginnie thrilled to the look in his eyes. She backed up. “I’ll get dressed,” she repeated. Her heart was definitely not safe around him.

A few minutes later, they sped toward the reported location. Harry shifted gears, appreciating the power that surged at the slightest touch of his foot to the Aston’s pedal.

“I think your car cost more than my little old rental house.” Ginnie ran a hand over the shiny walnut dash and poked at the crowded console.

“Slightly less.” He shooed her hand away.

“I can even control the temperature just on my side,” she said with awe. “This is great.”

“There’s a seat warmer too,” he pointed out, glad she liked his car. Jaye Rae had found his Aston Martin “desperately ostentatious” and refused to ride in anything but his silver BMW. Or the limo. Which was, in his opinion, even more ostentatious. Who knew how that woman’s mind really worked? Or any woman’s.

Ginnie was playing with the controls again. “You must be a very successful landlord.”

“You’ll be successful, Ginnie. I have faith in you.” He shooed her hand away again.

“You’re the only one who—oh no.”

Harry only glanced at where she looked. He already knew what she would see. He slowed, spotting his friend, a client of his, waving from the corner. When the man saw Harry had spotted the debris, he folded his arms. Around his feet were some of Ginnie’s marionettes. Police sirens sounded in the distance.

Ginnie seemed to shrink down in her seat. She looked horrified. “It’ll be okay,” he said. He hoped it would be.

The bulk of her puppets lay strewn in the road, some recognizable as what they were, others shattered into bits of wood and cloth and string. Not only puppets, but theater sets, drapery, lights, clothing, wigs, DVDs and stuff he didn’t recognize all littering the street and gutters. Some marionettes dangled from the low branches of trees. “How could he?” Ginnie breathed.

Before he could stop her, she’d opened his car door while the car was still rolling and bolted out. She raced across the path of oncoming traffic, ignoring the car horns to scoop up everything that lay in the road.

With a curse, he yanked his steering wheel hard to the right, a crooked parking job, then darted after her, salvaging the few pieces she missed, helping her pile everything safely on the strip of grass at the side of the road.

It began to rain.

“How could he?” She sank to her knees, examining a broken marionette’s face. Her face was a mask of agony.

Harry shook with fury. He averted his gaze from Ginnie, which was when he spotted the trunk. He shook his head with disbelief. This charming ex-fiancé of hers, this Rick, had emptied, then levered, Ginnie’s gleaming trunk into a large Dumpster.

“Oh!”

She’d spotted it. Harry shut his eyes.

“How could he do this?” At least now she sounded more angry than devastated. “Into the trash!”

Harry spoke with the client who’d waved him over, a well-to-do private investigator, while Ginnie circled the Dumpster. “Did anyone see the guy who did it?”

The man shook his head and spoke with deferential softness. “Sorry, Mr. Sharpe. My buddies have two cars out looking for the gold sport wagon the neighbor described. And I’ve put the word out about your generous reward for information. Now, I’ve got to go meet a client in the Southeast. Sounds like the police are on the way. Unless you need help with anything else?”

Cold drizzle iced Harry’s face as he shook his head. “No, thanks. I appreciate your assistance. I can handle it from here.” He hoped he could. His impulse was to fix what was wrong, but Ginnie’s emotions were beyond his ability to fix. Women’s emotions were strange and confusing territory for him. Until now, he hadn’t wanted to understand them.

At least there were a few things he could fix.

He made another call.

He reached for her as she passed him. “Hey.” He missed, brushing her arm with his fingertips, then leaned farther and encircled her forearm as she went by wringing her hands and looking both pissed and desperately upset. “Ginnie. Hey. Hold up.”

“What.” She stopped, at least. With one hand, she violently wiped damp curls off her face. “I have to get the trunk out of the trash. I have to get everything together. I have to—”

“You have to hush. And let me help. You have more important things to think about. Like your career.”

He could have bitten his tongue when she turned a stricken expression on him. “I’d forgotten about that. Oh, man, how could I have forgotten I was fired? That’s huge. My career is over. For good. I’m a total failure at everything.”

“You’re not a failure.”

“Am too. I’ve been rejected by everyone. My dad, who abandoned me and my mom. Then there’s my mom. I’m pretty sure she’s always blamed me for Dad’s taking off. Rick, who never wanted me until I was leaving and who now hates me enough to do this.” She flicked a hand toward the pile of puppetry stuff. “And Helping Hands. And you. You only wanted me for one night. I’m not good enough for more.”

She should just stick a knife in his heart. It would hurt less. “Ginnie, that was different.”

“Why? I’m seeing a pattern here. Nothing against you. It’s not you, it’s me.” She laughed. Harry didn’t like the sound of it.

He was tempted to grab her and shake some sense into her, but managed to restrain himself. She’d had a shock. “It’s actually not you. Not with me, and not with the people in charge at Helping Hands. Just because they didn’t like your management style, and just because you’re the newest and easiest to let go, that doesn’t mean you’re not cut out for the business of puppetry. I’ve seen you with marionettes. You have a gift. Now you just need to figure out how to turn that gift into a career.”

“How?”

He thought desperately. What would he do, if he were her? “Start somewhere small and secure, maybe. Set achievable goals, working with an eye toward the kind of job that offers financial security. Earn a paycheck at a crafts store, or a nine-to-five temporary position or somewhere like that, and get some volunteer experience with established artists? I don’t know the career path for a marionette artist, but I know what I saw last week. You have talent.”

“Then why does everyone reject me? Everyone thinks I’m a big b-b-”

“Bitch?” he said helpfully.

Her tear-filled glare filled him with remorse and a nearly irresistible desire to go down on his knees and beg her pardon. Or do something more fun.

He compromised. Easing closer so that his arms could prevent her escape if she chose to bolt, he said, “You’re not a bitch. You’re nowhere near being a bitch, and believe me, I know what I’m talking about. You’re just…stubborn. Strong-willed. Not always sufficiently sensible, maybe.”

She looked bleak, but at least she wasn’t making any sudden moves. “Not sensible. My mother always said that.” She breathed deeply, clearly straining for calm.

“This is the same mom that gave your ex your new address?” Harry shook his head. “She was foolish to do that. She’s the one who’s not sensible. Now, the first thing you need to do is take care of yourself.”

“No, the first thing I need to do is retrieve my stuff and see that it doesn’t get stolen again.” She looked fierce, a mother bear protecting her young. And then her eyes narrowed. “Um, Harry? Who are all those men in uniforms?”

“Just a few helpers. The moving company I used to get Jaye Rae’s things out of my house did such a fast job that I’ve kept in touch, recommending their services to friends and clients.” Harry barely glanced at the five men threading belts under the trunk in the Dumpster, or the others carefully lifting puppet parts and other theater bits from where they lay on the ground. He waved to one, a brusque acknowledgement. “They’re conscientious workers. Ginnie, would you please move back into my house?”

“What?” Astonishment rounded her eyes. “I moved out for good reason. You weren’t…comfortable…with me there.” The air between them seemed suddenly to hum, with neither willing to look away. The tension hypnotized him. It was like nothing else he’d experienced.

Then she spoke again. “Harry. Why are you asking me to move back?” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I appreciate your help, but I can take care of myself.”

Ah, he’d hurt her pride. He spoke smoothly, intent on convincing her. He felt passionate with his sudden intense desire to have her back in his house, but he kept his voice calm and logical. “Of course you can take care of yourself, but—”

“I don’t need a keeper. All this, it’s just a setback.”

He hid a smile at her throwing his words back at him. “A minor setback,” he agreed. He eased closer to her, noting the way her nostrils flared and her lips parted. She didn’t move away.

He didn’t pause to think about why he was inviting her back into his house. He only knew he wanted her there. To make sure she didn’t cry again. To take her mind off her troubles.

It was the same way he’d take care of a little sister. He had a brother, not sisters, but he figured the feeling was similar. Except for the sex. And the emotional stuff.

He went for the deal clincher. “I was thinking you might want to fix your puppets in the basement workroom. And to be closer to your old house while it’s being repaired, so you can keep an eye on your remaining possessions. And,” he added, “so I can keep an eye on you. I don’t like this ex of yours.”

He hadn’t meant to say that.

She smiled at him, a sweet smile that made her eyes flash brilliantly. Her lips and the gleam of her white teeth had him remembering her satisfaction not so many nights ago.

“Maybe.” She cocked her head at him. Sussing him out.

“Please? Ginnie, I would really like to have you there. No strings attached?” He wiggled his hands as if manipulating a marionette. She snorted laughter, and he knew he’d gotten his way. “Let’s go get your stuff.”

“Wait. Don’t we need to make a report to the police?”

“It’s done.”

“Well, don’t we need to tell the movers where to bring everything?”

“I already have.”

“Presumptuous, aren’t you.” She wore a stern expression.

He wondered at the change. A moment ago she’d been smiling and agreeable. “It’s that I didn’t ask you first? Is that why you’re…” Harry fought back a certain sense of disgruntlement. He was just taking charge, managing the situation the way he always did.

Taking control.

Ah.

“Ginnie? My dear?”

A smiled played at the corners of her mouth. “Yes?” He could tell she wanted to be disapproving but she wasn’t quite able to pull it off.

“I shouldn’t have assumed you’d agree to move back into my house. I apologize. Now, shall we go?”

“Absolutely.” She grinned.

Satisfaction surged through him. “Let’s go fix your puppets.”

There was something about having Ginnie here in his house that was both exciting and disconcerting.