Lovers and Strangers (4 page)

"Interesting how?"

Sammie-Jo shook her head in amused exasperation. "Are you kidding? A dark, mysterious man returns to the scene of the crime after who knows how long? Where's he been all this time? Why'd he come back? Remorse? Revenge? Did he return to finally make amends for the terrible thing he did or is he here to track down his brother's killer?"

"Killer? I thought you said it was suicide."

"Artistic license," Sammie-Jo said airily. "I tell you, done right, it would make a great movie of the week."

Faith had to smile at her friend's enthusiasm. "With you as the director, I suppose," she teased.

"Of course." Sammie-Jo grinned. "And Jack Shannon could play himself," she said magnanimously. "He'd be the perfect tough-guy hero." Her eyes narrowed as if she were actually considering him for a part in a real movie.
"A
sexy, good-looking guy, too cool for words and a little battered around the edges. Mysterious and aloof, so you're not really sure 'til the end whether he's the good guy or not. Kind of like all those characters Bogart used to play, only better looking. He'd be a huge hit with the all-important female television audience. Most women are suckers for guys like him."

"They are?"

"You mean to tell me you've been living at the Wilshire Arms for nearly a week and you haven't noticed how practically every woman in the building tries to bump into him in the hallway?"

Faith shook her head.

"Well, trust me, they do. But, except for Jill Mickelson, they haven't had much luck. He keeps pretty much to himself. That's probably why you haven't noticed him."

"Jill Mickelson?" Faith said before she could stop herself. Jack Shannon was a stranger and his private life wasn't any of her business. She shouldn't even be listening to Sammie-Jo ramble on about him, let alone encouraging her to do it.

"The divorcee in 2-B?" Sammie-Jo said. "She stopped to talk to us the other day as we were coming into the building with our groceries, remember? The tall, pretty blonde with the New England accent."

"Oh, yes, of course. I remember." Jill Mickelson was beyond pretty, Faith thought. She was tanned, fit and sexy, a typical California goddess, even if she had moved to Los Angeles from Boston. Faith could very easily picture the voluptuous blonde with the tall, dark man who'd rescued her. "She's an interior decorator, isn't she?"

"Interior designer," Sammie-Jo corrected.

"What's the difference?"

Sammie-Jo shrugged. "Darned if I know." She reached out and snagged another chip, one laden with refried beans, grated cheese and tiny slices of olives and jalapenos. "So what'd he do?" she asked.

"Who?"

"Who do you think?" She jerked her head toward the door. "Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous out there. What did he do to get you so upset? And
please
don't tell me he did anything so unforgivably crude as grabbing you by the ass. It would just about destroy my faith in my ability to judge men if he turns out to be that much of a sleaze."

Faith looked up at her friend. "I already told you. He didn't do anything," she said.
Except witness my humiliation.

Sammie-Jo heaved a theatrical sigh. "We've already established that you're not the type to get upset over nothing," she said. "So give. What kind of pass did he make? Tell me exactly what he said and did and I'll tell you how to handle it next time."

"He didn't do anything like that. Honest." She opened the door to the microwave and slipped the plate of nachos inside. "It was Mr. Brown."

"Freddie?" Sammie-Jo's big blue eyes rounded in disbelief. "You let
Freddie
upset you?"

"You said yourself he was a real ladies' man."

"Well, yes, but—" Sammie-Jo lifted her hands in helpless exasperation. "Faith, honey, Freddie's
harmless.
All the girls know that."

"He put his hand on my... ah, hip," Faith said primly, unable to bring herself to utter the word
ass.
Repressed Southern ladies didn't use cuss words.

Sammie-Jo grinned. "If you'd looked at him like that I bet he wouldn't have dared."

"Looked at him like what?"

"Like an outraged Sunday school teacher."

Faith wrinkled her brow, clearly puzzled by the other woman's words.

"You really don't know, do you?" Sammie-Jo shook her head in amazement. "Well, tonight after we get off work we're going back to the apartment and you're going to practice in front of the mirror."

"Practice what?"

"All the expressions necessary for letting a guy know he's acting like a jerk. There's insulted." Sammie-Jo demonstrated by lifting her chin and looking down her nose. "Shocked." She widened her eyes. "Injured." Her lower lip quivered very slightly. "Angry." Her eyes narrowed menacingly. "And that's just for starters."

Faith couldn't help but laugh. "Where did you learn all that?" she asked, her tone half admiring, half despairing.

"Every woman's born with the basic skills, honey," Sammie-Jo assured her. "It just takes a little practice to perfect them, is all." She reached across the counter and patted Faith's hand. "Don't worry, I'll have you up to snuff in no time. And then—" she grinned evilly "—if any man dares to presume, you'll be able to cut him off at the knees with a glance."

Faith's gaze flickered toward the door leading into the bar. "Can you teach me how to do it in the next five minutes?"

"Well..." Sammie-Jo hesitated, her common sense warring with the hopeful expression in Faith's eyes. A woman didn't learn how to defend herself against unwanted advances in five minutes.

"Just so I can go back out there tonight and not make a fool of myself again."

"Okay, one quick lesson," Sammie-Jo agreed. "We'll keep it real basic," she warned as she came around the counter. She put her hands on Faith's shoulders, turning her so that they were both facing the shiny reflective surface of the industrial-size microwave oven.

"Okay, now, pay attention. Are you paying attention?"

Faith nodded, the solemn expression on her face telling Sammie-Jo just how seriously she was taking the lesson.

"Okay. Draw yourself up really stiff and straight. Shoulders square. Think of Miz Griffen at the library when somebody wanted to check out a book she thought was indecent. That's it. Now, lift your chin like this. No, not quite so much, you don't want to look like you're staring at the ceiling. There, that's it. Now, lower your eyelids, just a little, and turn your head a tiny bit, real slow." She demonstrated the move. "Try to look like you've just spotted a nasty little pile of doggy-do on your hostess's living room carpet but you're too well-bred to say anything."

Faith surprised them both by chuckling.

"No laughing," Sammie-Jo said, the mock sternness of her tone belied by the twinkle in her eyes. "This is serious stuff. And don't wrinkle up your nose like that," she instructed. "You haven't actually
smelled
the doggy-do yet, you're just afraid you
might.
Here, watch me do it one more time." With just a slight lift of her chin, the minutest turn of her head, the tiniest narrowing of her eyes, Sammie-Jo conveyed a wealth of delicate, well-bred disgust. "Dignified and just too disgusted for words, okay? Now you try."

With an expression of utmost seriousness, Faith lifted her chin and did her best to imitate the look of slightly shocked disdain on her friend's face.

Sammie-Jo studied the results for a moment. "That's perfect," she decided, giving Faith's shoulders an encouraging squeeze before she let go. "I think you're a natural."

Faith continued to stand there, studying her reflection. The face that stared back at her was the same old face she saw in the mirror every morning of her life. Try as she might, she didn't see any of the dignified haughtiness she'd seen when Sammie-Jo had demonstrated the expression. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Sammie-Jo assured her. "Trust me. That touch-me-not look will make most of those Happy Hour Romeos filling up the bar out there think twice before they try anything." She thought it best not to mention the men it would present an irresistible challenge to. "And if one of them is insensitive enough to try something anyway, you just spill a drink right smack-dab in his lap. Or hit him over the head with your tray. Okay?"

Faith nodded. "Okay," she said, pretending a confidence she was far from feeling. She reached up and opened the microwave door, using a heavy napkin to withdraw the steaming plate of nachos. She placed it on a tray, added a rolled red napkin full of silverware, a sweating bottle of Corona and a chilled pilsner glass with a wedge of lime attached to the rim. With a lithe, practiced movement, she hefted the tray to shoulder height, balancing it on the flat of one hand.

"Remember," Sammie-Jo said as she pushed the swinging door open for her. "You're Miz Griffen at the Pine Hollow Library and if somebody looks like he's even
thinking
of making an indecent advance, you look at him like he's doggy-do."

Faith smiled grimly, afraid that it was going to take more than a facade of dignity to get her through her first Friday night as a cocktail waitress. Especially when the first customer she had to face with her new persona was a man who already knew, firsthand, what a spineless coward she really was.

Chapter 2

With a strangled oath of pure frustration, Jack yanked another sheet of paper out of his typewriter, crushed it into a ball and flung it across the room. It landed with a soft plop against the wall and bounced twice, coming to a stop amid the dozen or so other crumpled balls of paper scattered under and around the table where he sat.

"Damned script," he growled and reached for the pack of cigarettes lying atop a stack of paper beside the typewriter. It was empty. With another oath, filthier than the last, he crushed the useless pack of cellophane and paper and heaved it at the wall. His week's allotment of cigarettes was gone already, and he'd only opened the pack yesterday. At this rate, he thought, he'd die of lung cancer before he finished rewriting the script.

"Which might not be altogether bad," he muttered in disgust.

He stood abruptly, pushing the chair back with his jeans-clad legs as he straightened. The metal feet made a screeching noise as they scraped along the hardwood floor but Jack didn't pay any attention. He moved through the arched doorway into the minuscule kitchen, heading for the coffeepot. If there were no cigarettes to help the creative process along, at least there was caffeine. But the pot was empty, the acrid smell and gummy brown ring at the bottom attesting to the fact that it had been some time since he poured his last cup.

Saying a quick prayer to the coffee gods, he lifted the pot off of the warming unit with one hand and yanked open the door of the refrigerator with the other. He'd purchased a pound of his favorite dark French roast beans from a Middle Eastern grocer over on Westwood less than a week ago. There should be enough left for at least one more pot. There was, thank God. Just barely.

After plucking a damp filter full of used coffee grounds out of the corner of the sink and dropping it into an overflowing trash can beside the counter, he washed the pot thoroughly, making sure that no hint of the burnt coffee smell lingered. Then he ground the beans to exactly the right degree of fineness and carefully dumped them into an organic unbleached paper filter he fitted into the top of the pot. Filling a teakettle with cold, bottled spring water, he set it on the stove, turned the flame on under it and then stood there with a scowl on his face, willing it to boil.

Ten seconds dragged by, and then another ten, and he began to wonder if one of the cigarette butts in the ashtray next to his typewriter might have been crushed out prematurely. All he needed was a puff or two while he waited for the water to come to a boil. Leaving the kettle to watch itself, he moved back into dining room. A quick look at the contents of the ashtray told him it would be passing the bounds of pathetic to light up any of the remaining butts. Only a hopeless nicotine addict would sink that low. He wasn't that bad off, he assured himself. Not yet, anyway.

With a snort of disgust, he jammed his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and turned away from the table. Moving restlessly, his nerves jangling, he crossed the dining room with the lithe grace of a caged tiger, heading for the tall arched windows in the living room. Opening one shutter, he propped a shoulder against the window frame and stared broodingly out at the sun-baked concrete of the courtyard.