Not Another New Year’s (14 page)

His mother was back to unloading the bags of groceries sitting on the kitchen countertop they’d been in the process of delivering when they startled Desirée. “Now, Hank, don’t be giving the wrong idea to…” She paused and threw an innocent glance over her shoulder. “What did you say your name was?”

Desirée grimaced. There was no getting out of this one. “I’m guessing you already know who I am, Mrs. Hart. Your son Tanner and I have shared a lot of screen and print space over the last year.”

Her bare toes curled into the cool tile beneath her feet. “You…you and Mr. Hart have my profound apology for the publicity and all the trouble it’s caused you and your family.” Desirée braced, prepared for the well-deserved blast.

Ann Hart turned around, a carton of eggs in her hand. “Oh, Desirée.” Her voice and eyes were soft. “I’ll accept, of course, but Hank and I also accept that what happened to the two of you wasn’t your fault.”

“That’s nice of you to say, but—”

“Tanner doesn’t blame you either, not really.” Ann opened the refrigerator and slid the carton inside.

“Troy does,” Desirée said.

Hank pulled a plastic package from another bag. “What does he know?” he boomed out. “The boy eats tofu. What’s wrong with steak, I want to know? Or a nice bucket of the Colonel’s Extra Crispy? Hell’s bells, ladies, what’s wrong with the other white meat?”

Shaking her head, Ann took the package from her
husband and then turned back to the refrigerator. “Hank, I don’t think we should be talking about—”

“You’re the one who told me not to be ashamed of the way he eats! So I don’t think it’s unmanly anymore. I tell myself he’s going to live to be a hundred or at least long enough to take care of my aging, meat-fed carcass when you up and leave me for one of those pretty-boy tennis instructors you’re always eyeing.”

Ann sent a conspiratorial look in Desirée’s direction. “Don’t believe a word he says,” she stage-whispered. “It’s the studly golf pros I’m really after.”

Desirée grinned, watching as they put groceries away, teasing and play-grousing the entire time. The couple had something real here, she could see that. It was in the way they managed to move around each other without colliding in the small room, even though the limited space made Hank Hart look like the proverbial bull in a china shop. It was in the pat of a wide palm against his wife’s hip as he opened a narrow pantry door and in the way she handed over a piece of paper towel before he could even ask after he washed his hands.

It was a love as palpable as…as the animosity she could feel radiating off Troy despite their one, incendiary kiss.

Speaking of Troy…

Desirée started, remembering she’d been sent here to do a job. “I really should be getting back to the bar.”

Ann Hart threw the paper towel she’d been using to dry her own hands in the garbage can beneath the sink. “A clipboard, you said? I think I saw it—” She
broke off, her gaze snagging on Desirée’s arm. “You ripped your pretty top.”

She glanced down at the tear. “It’s no big deal. I don’t think the Hart’s customers will even notice.”

“Still, I can repair that for you.”

“Oh, no—”

But Ann had already made up her mind. “Go put a T-shirt of Troy’s on and bring the blouse back to me. Hank, find Troy’s house wife.”

House wife? Surely not…
It was only after Desirée returned to the kitchen, wearing a USMC T-shirt that hung to her knees, that she discovered
house wife
meant “sewing kit.”

“I didn’t think he’d been married,” Desirée said.

Ann laughed. “My dad was in the Marines too. It’s what we always called it around our house.”

“Troy married? Hah!” was Hank’s blustering response. He opened the refrigerator as his wife went to work on Desirée’s clothing. “What do you see in here but vegetarian stuff that looks moldy even when it’s fresh? Who would sign on with a man who makes pancakes out of barley instead of drinking it in a beer like any other self-respecting leatherneck? And do you know he practices that weird hoda stuff too?”

Desirée looked at Ann for interpretation. “Yoga,” she said, wearing a pained expression. “He knows it’s hatha yoga.”

Hank shut the refrigerator with a flourish. “Hoda, yoda, yoga. What ever. I’m telling you, I worry about him.”

Desirée tried to hide her smile, even though it amused her to no end. Not just Mr. Hart’s reaction to
his son’s health-conscious activities, but the idea that granite-faced, macho-man Troy was also a practitioner of holistic arts.

“Say…” Hank Hart narrowed his eyes, looking at her more closely.

Desirée’s eyebrows rose. “Say…what?”

“You should get him to invite you over for dinner.”

“Dinner here?” She liked tofu okay, she supposed. And being alone with Troy—

“To our house,” Mr. Hart explained. “We live right next door.”

“Oh.” She glanced over at Troy’s mother and knew, just knew, that Ann Hart was the one at the imaginary dining room table Desirée had set at that pretty blue-and-white house. “The one with the flag and the tire swing out front?”

Ann smiled, as if she read in the question all Desirée’s admiration and all her yearning. “That’s right. We have a vacation house in the desert too, but we spend a lot of time here and there’s always room for another guest at the table. Though they’re all grown up, one of my four boys and a friend or two often show up for dinner.”

“Except Troy,” Hank grumbled, dragging a pottery canister toward him to inspect its contents. “Why do you think we had to bring the groceries over? Ann’s convinced something’s bothering him. She’s sure he isn’t eating enough.”

“And I was right, wasn’t I?” His wife neatly clipped the ends of the thread with a tiny pair of scissors. “The cupboard was nearly bare.”

As she handed Desirée the repaired garment, she smiled again. “You’re welcome to come over any time,
you know. As a matter of fact, I almost invited you to Christmas dinner—”

The rest of her remark was lost in a crash and another loud “Hell’s bells.” Hank Hart had finally succumbed to the curse of a large man in a small room and knocked the canister to the floor, spewing a cloud of flour over himself and the tile in the process.

As Ann Hart rushed to help clear the mess, Hank propped his hands on his hips and glared down at his now dusty-looking pants in mild disgust. “What do you want to bet this is some Buddha-blessed whole wheat stuff?”

Desirée had to grin.

And then she realized again that she had to get back to the bar. Troy’s parents excused her from clean up, she changed back into her own shirt, located the errant clipboard, then drove double-time back to Hart’s.

She was still smiling over her encounter with Troy’s parents when she strode through the door of the bar. The place was still busy, but her boss immediately looked up as she came inside. The glower he gave her couldn’t smother her chipper mood. No way.

Hoda. Yoda. Yoga.

She snickered right in Troy’s face as he stomped up to confront her. “What are you laughing about?” he demanded.

In her imagination he executed the move downward facing dog while balancing a bucket of KFC on his butt. She snickered a second time. Troy Hart was never going to intimidate her again. He really wasn’t so tough.

“I ran into your parents at your house,” she said.

“So I heard.” He narrowed his gaze at her. “I called over there when you didn’t pick up your cell.”

“Sorry, left it in the car.” She handed over the clipboard and still couldn’t keep the wattage down on her grin. It gave her the confidence to take a step closer, then spider-walk her fingers up the center of his solid chest. “I have to tell you, I really like your folks.”

He frowned. “Were you rubbing up against my dad like you do me? He’s pretty easy that way.”

“Hah.” She flicked the center of his solar plexus, and he winced. “Your
mother
likes me too.”

And maybe you like me, Troy. Maybe you’re not as invulnerable to me as you try to make it appear.
She let her fingertips rest over his heartbeat a moment and could feel its steady rhythm echoing through to her bones.

She looked up into his inscrutable eyes, but this time she didn’t let them frighten her away. If there was a place for her at that dining room table in that pretty house, maybe there was a place for her in his life too. “As a matter of fact, Troy,” she said, “your mother told me she’d meant to invite me to Christmas dinner.”

An expression flitted across his face, changing for an instant that flat stare of his eyes.

It was as if an ice cube had run down her spine. Her hand dropped, she took a step back. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Of course she had to ask.

“Why didn’t she invite me for Christmas?”

His expression said it all. He was as immovable as Mount Rushmore. A man too mean, too hard, too cold to be vulnerable to her. Too tough-guy, despite
the tofu, to ever feel something soft or ever to be as weak as one could be made by love.

God, she should know how weak that was.

Desirée raised her voice, because she wanted to hear him say it out loud. “Why didn’t your mother invite me to Christmas, Troy?”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t even have the grace or the ounce of feeling necessary to flinch. “Because I told her that if there was a chair for you at the table, then I would leave mine empty.”

A
fter playing hooky the day before, Hannah had promised herself an early departure from the hotel so she could arrive at the park in plenty of time to find Caroline. But little things kept holding her up.

First, she had to chat with Desirée in an effort to cheer her mood. Clearly, the younger woman was down in the dumps following her latest shift at Hart’s—and her latest clash with Troy. When she’d broken down and told her everything, Hannah had suggested that perhaps a full retreat was in order, which put a fire in Desirée’s midnight eyes. “He might knock me down,” she declared, her spine jerking straight. “But I won’t let him walk all over me.”

Next, there was the incredible ocean view to admire with her coffee. After she finally left the suite, she took a wrong turn and found herself in front of a
magical ice skating rink. Bordered by palm trees and a long stretch of beach, it appeared to have been plucked from the South Pole and then dropped in sunny California by serendipitous mistake. No one was skating, however, and a sign stated that the rink was closed for the season. Even as she stood there, a crew arrived, ready to dismantle the miracle.

It was too much like watching Toto pull the curtain aside on the great and wondrous Oz, so she hurried away, preferring to keep the pretty mirage intact in her memory. In the hotel’s paneled lobby, though, were more signs of changing times. There, the gargantuan Christmas tree was being undressed of all its holiday splendor of fantastical ornaments and sparkling lights.

Illusions were disappearing everywhere.

Outside on the street, it was hard to believe that the weather wasn’t just another lovely trick. Sun shone down, its yellow heat warming Hannah’s hair and shoulders like summer. The smell of saltwater and sand drifted by, driven by the same soft breeze that shook the palm fronds over her head.

It was the kind of day you strolled into.

And so, despite the urgency of her errand, she did, in a pair of Dez’s wedge-and-turquoise leather sandals, a khaki dirndl skirt with an eyelet-edged hem, and a turquoise T-shirt with tiny cap sleeves. The outfit was trendy and casual yet probably cost a billion bucks. Counting the incredible underwear beneath, two billion.

Hannah smiled to herself. Returning to her own Ross, Marshall’s, and Macy’s on-sale wardrobe was going to be a big wake-up call. Her mother had put
together a package of things that Hannah expected any day. Then it would be good-bye to designer wear.

But playing double to a wealthy heiress was something she was happy she hadn’t passed up. She’d wanted an adventure, right? And every moment since stepping off the plane in San Diego had certainly been that.

Stolen luggage…

Strange bar…

Sex with a strange man…

That strange sense of being watched.

The last thought cut coldly into her reminiscences. Hannah quickened her pace and crossed her hands over her arms to frisk her suddenly cold flesh. A brief glance around didn’t reveal any likely source of the creepy feeling, but still she felt a sharp urge to turn around and run back to the security—and the security guards—of the hotel.

Then she remembered Desirée and her never-say-die attitude. Dezi wouldn’t cut and run. Dezi would call this for what it was—Hannah’s psyche searching for a way out of making this trip to the park.

Dezi would recognize that the go-along, what ever you-think-is-right pleaser inside of Hannah was dredging up fake fears in order to get out of doing the uncomfortable. To get out of making anyone uncomfortable—the prime person being Hannah herself.

She dropped her hands to her sides and increased her stride, letting her arms swing like a woman who had places to go.

Other women to see.

She was going to finally confront Caroline.

Her skin crawled again, but now Hannah dismissed the sensation and turned the corner. The park was in sight.

On this sunny morning, she realized with dismay, there was a larger crowd enjoying the park. Her gaze took in the scene as she waited with a small group for the signal to cross the street. Never mind. It might take her some time to look over all of them, but she’d find her quarry.

The light turned green. Her gaze focused ahead, Hannah leaped off the curb. In the same instant, a dark shape sped like a shark in her peripheral vision. A car, making a sharp right—right into her path.

One wedged sandal on the road, one wedged sandal on the sidewalk, Hannah threw her balance back to her trailing foot. She wobbled on the heel, her arms flailing, as she experienced a weird slow-mo moment. Her front leg still hanging out in the street, bobbing up and down, side to side. The bumper of the black car just a bad breath away, ready to clip her knee and send her into the street and under its ravenous wheels.

Desperation and adrenaline made her jerk backward again, and the movement jerked her out of the time warp too. Her left leg lost the equilibrium battle and she fell to the sidewalk, with a big bonk of tailbone to cement. The black shark paused, as if regretting its loss of a meal, then sped on.

Horns honked.

An angry man yelled, “Arizona driver!”

Hands reached under Hannah’s elbows and helped her to her feet.

“Are you all right?” a young woman asked. She gripped the handle of a baby stroller but used her other hand to brush the back of Hannah’s skirt. “You could have been killed!”

Pulse beating too fast, Hannah looked off after the dark sedan. “I’m okay. Thanks for the help.” She tore her gaze from the retreating car to direct a smile at the woman, who had a girl-next-door face, streaky hair short as a boy’s, and a small diaper bag over her shoulder.

“And I’m glad your little one is safe too,” Hannah added, glancing into the stroller and the snoozing infant.

Then the light changed in their favor again. Their small group craned their necks for oncoming turners, and reassured, stepped into the street. Noting how high the curb was, Hannah grabbed the bottom of the stroller and helped the young mother ease it off the sidewalk.

Stomach shrinking at the thought of what could have happened to the innocent baby, Hannah walked alongside the stroller, putting herself between it and any careless drivers. On the other side, she helped the mother again.

They parted with smiles, the other woman heading toward the playground and Hannah turning in the direction of the grassy area where people were stretched out on blankets, sitting against trees, or standing in small clusters anchoring their leashed dogs.

Though the photograph at Duncan’s parents had been fuzzy, there was no doubt about Caroline’s long, wavy blond hair (yes, it would have to be a
blonde, wouldn’t it?) and her penchant for cheap-looking dark eye makeup (said a nasty judgmental voice). She had appeared to be somewhere around Desirée’s age or maybe Hannah’s, so all she had to do was locate a twenty-something woman with bleached hair and spiky black lashes.

Her first canvass turned up no one to fit the mold, with the exception of a butterscotch-colored, standardsize poodle wearing a Hawaiian print visor. Shaking herself, Hannah sharpened her focus and attempted to make a more methodical search. From the grassy area’s center, she walked outward in a box pattern, taking care to look over each and every likely face.

Today it seemed as if all the blondes were over forty or under twenty. She gave a second look at a woman with light brown hair and lots of makeup, but had to dismiss her when she was joined by a skinny man in Bermuda shorts who gave her a voluptuous kiss.

The kiss distracted her a little, because kissing made her thoughts jump to Tanner. Pausing in the dappled sunshine, she watched the couple kiss again, and it made her smile. Yesterday, everything from the pink grapefruit slices at breakfast to the papaya-coconut lotion used during her massage had made her think about sex. About sex and Tanner.

Today’s spotlight on meeting Caroline had cast him in the shadows of her mind. But now, watching that couple entwine in a PG-13 embrace, he stepped once again into the center of her attention. He’d called her from the bar the night before, making some vague promise about seeing her today, and she’d gone to sleep with his deep, lazy voice in her mind. In the
night, turning on the soft sheets, she’d pretended instead to be turning against his body, first pressing her shoulder blades to his chest, and then her breasts. Nothing could mimic the skin-jittering touch of his callused hand against her inner thigh, so she’d finally clenched them hard together and willed herself to sleep. That only led to dreams of what must have happened on New Year’s Eve, and she’d woken up overheated and with the weird thought that she owed an apology—or maybe a morning kiss—to her pillow.

She smiled. Perhaps she’d get Tanner to tell her in exquisite detail exactly how their night together had been…right before they reenacted it.

A flag of bright hair color caught her eye, and her smile died. Her eyes narrowed and she assessed the woman now walking into the park.

Approximate age, mid-twenties.

No male currently attached.

She couldn’t tell about the makeup from this distance, but the hair color and length were about right. Maybe it had more red to it than she’d expected, but it surely was the closest yet.

Drifting nearer, Hannah noticed the woman had a beach blanket under her arm. She unfurled it at a spot near the edge of the park, beside a rough-edged hedge that separated the grass from the sidewalk. Hannah watched the woman sit down and flip open a magazine.

Taking a deep breath, she moved even closer.

Was this it? Was this the moment when she looked into the face of the woman who had stolen Duncan?

That thought sent her five more steps forward. Her heart moving in her chest like a rocking chair,
she looked down at Duncan’s wife. The other woman had golden freckles across her nose.

Was that it? Were freckles the secret? Was that what she lacked?

“Caroline?” The name came out of her throat like a hushed croak. Hannah’s hands started to shake as the woman didn’t look up from her magazine. Had her schoolteacher life and her pleaser personality made her that invisible to the world?

“Caroline?” she said again, raising her voice, her stomach seeming to rise as well.

The other woman glanced up, then lifted her chin. “Pardon me?”

“Are you…are you Caroline?” Hannah felt as unbalanced as she had on the street, facing that dark shark of a car.

“My name is Patty.”

“Oh. Oh.” Her belly fell like a weight and she flushed. “I’m sorry to bother you.” Hating how relieved she felt, Hannah turned.

“Wait. Do you happen to be looking for Caroline Griffen?”

Hannah spun back, her stomach preparing for another nervous maneuver. “Yes, yes I am. Do you know her? Do you, uh,
see
her?” Her gesture encompassed the grass.

Patty leaned, so she could look around Hannah. “No. No, I don’t.”

Hannah wilted again. “All right. Thanks.”

“But I saw her earlier in the week. She told me she has a new job on Amstead Avenue.”

“A new job? What kind of new job?”

Hannah took it as testament that she continued to
look like everyone’s favorite schoolteacher, because the other woman didn’t hesitate or even ask why she wanted to know. “At a restaurant, I think? I’m sorry, I don’t know any more than that.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” She didn’t bother asking directions to Amstead Avenue. Desirée had made clear how truly small Coronado was. Heck, meeting Patty who knew Caroline was evidence enough.

So she headed toward the sidewalk, ready to reward herself with a cup of coffee on her way to locating Amstead and Caroline. A coffee stop was another little stall tactic, and of course Hannah knew that, but still, today she was making progress toward her goal.

“Hannah!”

Her head whipped around. A man was walking toward her, sunlight flaming his hair to a golden halo. Her heart, which had been rocking a few minutes ago, went crazy now, pitching back and forth like a ship on rugged seas. Tanner.

God. Just like that, she was thinking about sex again.

It was in every one of his slow, loose-limbed steps. Sex. She saw it in the magic triangle of his wide shoulders and lean hips. Sex. Her gaze dropped to his square palms and long fingers.

Sex.

He’d injected her with it, she decided. Infused it in her bones during those moments the night before last, and now stirred it again with one look from his flame-blue eyes.

Sex.

He slid his hand in the crook of her elbow. Her skin quivered, just like her heart. His free palm caught her cheek and turned her face toward his.

His mouth was hot. He murmured something against her lips (surely not a protest!) and she ignored it to melt against him and lose herself in…

Sex.

Rational thought disappeared. She didn’t think of coffee or of Caroline or of what she was supposed to be doing this morning other than basking in the warmth of the man kissing her with such toe-curling relish.

“Tanner!” A voice yelled. “Dezi!”

They stumbled apart, startled by the shouting. A man broke through the bushes by the sidewalk, a big camera in his hands. He rushed them, nearly leaping over Patty in his eagerness.

Tanner was already drawing her backward. “Get the hell away from us,” he told the man. His hand found Hannah’s, squeezed. “Run, sweetheart. Run run run.”