Project Produce (16 page)

I shoved his glove away and threw my left arm.

“Watch the right arm.” He tapped my right cheek this time.

“Darn it.” I grunted. “This isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“You’re doing fine. Find your rhythm, and do what comes natural. I see you’re right-handed.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Focus your power on that. Jab twice with your left to throw your opponent off, and then swing hard with your right. Left, left, right. Left, left, right.” He demonstrated with his own hands. “Got it?”

“I think so. Left, left, right. Left, left, right.” I smiled as I swung my fists, getting into it.

“Good, now move your feet. Never stay in the same place. Confuse your opponent.”

I danced around the ring, throwing punches and laughing. “This is fun.” Narrowing my eyes, I danced in his direction and sent him a devilish grin. “Let’s see what you got, Dukeypoo.”

He fended off several of my punches. “Watch it. I don’t want to hurt you.” He bobbed and weaved around the ring, perspiration soaking his T-shirt, and his breathing picking up.

“What’s the matter, scared?” I bounced from side to side.

“Of you? Never.” He jabbed my gloves, then danced around behind me and tapped my bottom, and I wished for an insane second that he didn’t have a pair of two-inch thick gloves on.

“Hey, watch it.” I spun around, trying to at least sound decent, even if my thoughts weren’t. Blood surged through my veins, and my chest heaved from exertion, but I felt alive. More alive than I had in years.

“What’s the matter, scared?” He winked.

“Of you? You wish.” I threw a few jabs with my left hand, and--

“Yo, Cabrizzi, time’s up,” the gym manager shouted.

Dylan looked up.

Crack!

--and there came my right. Right across his left eye, knocking him flat on his back. “Oh, no. Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. You okay?” I flew to him and dropped by his side, untying my gloves with my teeth.

“I’ll live, if I could just get these damn lambs to stop circling my head.”

Yanking off my gloves, I cradled his cheeks with my palms and inspected every inch of his face. “Oh, Lord, you’re bleeding.” I touched his eyebrow.

“Ah, it’s a scratch. He’s had worse.” The gym manager leaned over my shoulder and stared at Dylan. He squinted, looking closer. “Damn, I think that might need a stitch.”

“Yeah, well, if you hadn’t opened your big mouth in the middle of a match, I wouldn’t need stitches, you old geezer.”

“Stitches?” I paled. “I scarred you?”

“Boy’s too dang pretty. He needs a few marks to keep him from gettin’ cocky.”

“Confident.” Dylan winked at me.

Yeah, yeah, we both know cocky implies a pickle, confident implies a zucchini, and there’s nothing small about you, Zuc
.

“‘Sides,” the manager shook his head, “if he’d been payin’ attention to his fight instead of gawkin’ at you, he’d be fine.” He pulled Dylan to his feet and pressed a rag over the cut. “Hold this while I get my kit.” Then he waddled off.

“He’s going to sew you up?” I grabbed onto Dylan when he swayed and he leaned on me, his arm looped over my shoulder. God, I liked the feel of all those hard muscles pressed close to my side. We stayed arm-in-arm as I helped him into the manager’s office. “Aren’t you worried?”

“Gus is the best there is. Been sewing up his patrons for nearly forty years now. I’m more worried about how I’m going to explain this one to the guys.”

“Explain what?”

“How I got my ass whooped by a small-town girl.”

“Just tell them I’m a knockout.” I tossed him a saucy wink. “Told ya I could hold my own.” Good Lord, I couldn’t believe I just said that. I was getting way too comfortable with this guy.

Note to self: That’s your cue!

I just kept my arm around him, smirking like an imbecile. Why couldn’t I make myself let go and leave?

He shook his head, pressing the rag tighter to his forehead. “You’re a knockout, all right, but that was a lucky punch. I demand a rematch.”

We stopped walking, still arm-in-arm. “Bring it on, Detective.”

“Name the time and place, Mac.”

“If you two are done verbally fornicatin’, I’d like to get this over with. I’ve got a business to run, ya know.”

I shot Dylan a last smug smile. “Ding. Ding. Saved by the bell. And I’ve got to get to work.”

He squeezed my side. “You let me know when you’re ready for round two.”

I rolled my eyes and walked off to the locker room to change, giving him another glimpse of my jiggling insecurity that somehow didn’t feel so huge anymore.

Why oh why did I say I wanted to be just friends?

***

That afternoon, I sat in my apartment, feeling totally creeped out. After asking my boss what had happened to the undercover security guy, I’d found out he didn’t exist. So who in the world was Inspector Gadget?

Then my boss gave me an unexpected afternoon off. He’d said things were slow, so he’d told me to head home and crack open the books. I hadn’t argued because I needed the extra time to prepare my progress report.

The Angels had done an awesome job gathering research for me, but they still hadn’t interviewed a zucchini. So that meant I still had to, but I had enough of a start for a progress report. Now I just had to put it all together, but I couldn’t seem to concentrate anymore.

Go figure. After a lunch break of sparring with Hot Britches, I had all the academic skills of an amoeba. I blew out a breath. Why had I ever suggested we just be friends? I asked myself once again. I knew exactly why. I didn’t need a man in my life right now. Didn’t trust men. But that didn’t stop me from wanting to sleep with him. I shivered. So not gonna happen.

I glanced out the window to take my mind off of that. What a change from this morning’s snowstorm. The weather had turned bright and sunny, and the temperature had risen to forty degrees. I felt stir-crazy sitting there in the apartment, even though I was supposed to be working on my project. Maybe I just needed to clear my head. Ever since lunch, something had clicked inside me, a need to feel alive that only exercise could bring. I couldn’t afford to join a gym, so I’d stopped at Wal-Mart and spent the last of my mad money on a new, lime-green warm-up suit. That would sure as heck cure me of winter blahs.

Back home, my life had been drab and boring. I’d fallen into a depression right before I’d met Bob, but my parents didn’t want the scandal of me going to see a shrink. Not even one in the big city. Syracuse had been the big city to them. We’d all thought Bob was a dream come true, the answer to my depression, but he’d made my life far worse. If they knew I’d gone as far as Queens, they’d be worried sick.

I sighed. Who was I fooling? I’d once thought they were so stifling because they cared about me. It took them forever to have me. They were forty-seven, in fact. And they worried constantly. I’d never felt good enough for them, or anyone, but I had thought they would love me no matter how much I screwed up my life. That was what parents were supposed to do.

Staring out my apartment window, I decided to put the past out of my mind. I changed my clothes, adding my hat and mittens but leaving my Eskimo parka behind. Too constricting for jogging. Then I hopped on the subway and headed for Central Park.

Shortly thereafter, I stretched out and started my run. As pretty as Central Park was in winter, I could only imagine what it must look like in the summer--trees in full bloom, green grass, fragrant flowers, ponds. But even the weather now brightened my mood as I jogged along a footpath. The air was crisp and bright, and the snowy trees looked postcard-perfect.

Several people milled about visiting the zoo, sitting around the fountain, walking dogs, pushing strollers, and jogging just like I was. Okay, they didn’t exactly look like me, but at least I was attempting to jog. It probably looked more like a bouncy walk, but hey, baby steps, right? I glanced around at the people, hoping they wouldn’t notice me. The last thing I wanted was more attention.

I peeked over my shoulder, and a man lurked a few paces behind me, with hunched shoulders and shifty eyes. He averted his gaze and walked along the edge of the path. I turned back around, my heart now in my throat, and picked up the pace a little, then peeked back over my shoulder. He was power walking now, still looking into the trees. Even I knew people didn’t exercise in pressed khakis, loafers, and a suede jacket.

At the fork in the path, I veered to the right. I checked behind me and saw the man do the same. At the next fork, I veered to the left. Again, the man did the same.
For God’s sake, not another stalker
. I pulled off my mitten and flipped open my cell to call Dylan.

“Ready for round two?” Dylan answered his phone.

“Not quite, but I could use your expertise.”

“About what?”

“How to handle a power-walking stalker.”

“Not again, Mac.”

“I know, believe me. My life has become a circus. Either I smell like money, or I’ve got a
follow me
sign stuck to my behind.” I kept a close eye on Khaki Man, and prayed that he’d go away.

“Go to the main entrance of the park, and I’ll meet you there,” Dylan said.

“Wait, how do you know where I am?”

“You just told me.”

“I did?” I was pretty sure I didn’t, but at the next fork in the path, a group of joggers merged in between us, hopefully blocking Khaki Man’s view of me. “Oh, wait. I think I lost him.”

“Callie, do not try to nab this guy on your own. Just because you knocked me down doesn’t mean you’re a pro at protecting yourself.”

“Trust me, I have no plans to nab anyone. I’m just trying to lose him.” I ducked off the path into a group of trees and waited. When the man ran right by, bobbing his head left and right, I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Do you think it’s the Midnight Molester?” Dylan asked.

“Not likely. You should see this guy.” I stepped out of the trees, and the man glanced over his shoulder and then did a double-take. “Uh-oh, Khaki Man saw me.”

“Khaki who?”

“Hang on he’s headed back this way. I’m gonna haul my butt out of here.” I tucked the phone in my pocket, pulled my mitten back on, and pumped both arms, jogging faster. Okay, bouncy walking slightly faster.
This is pathetic, Cal. No more healthy portions for you
.

He power-walked quicker, looking like it was a piece of cake, and he was gaining on me.

Big surprise there.

I had to do something, or he’d catch me. Spying a horse just standing there at the edge of the footpath, I didn’t stop to consider who he belonged to. With adrenaline surging through my veins, I stepped on a tree stump and vaulted onto his back. His head whipped up, his hindquarters dropped, and he shot forward like a bullet.

“Yaaaaaaiiiiiipe!” I screamed, scaring him even more, and he bolted faster. “Oh, no,” I yelled, my insecurity slapping the saddle like a moron on a pogo stick. My fanny would never be the same. Somewhere in the back of my mind, it registered that a man in a uniform, who appeared to be helping a lost child, yelled for me to halt, or freeze, or something like that. I snatched the reins, and I swear I intended to stop, but I was too busy trying not to die to concentrate on getting the horse to
whoa
.

For a moment, I thought I’d lost Khaki Man, then I spotted him through the trees. I flopped around in the saddle and tried to get a better hold on Hi-Ho Silver, when he detoured into the woods. Fresh out of Lone Ranger moves, I couldn’t get the crazy horse to respond to any of my movements. I had ridden a couple of times as a kid, but nothing was working, so I just held on tight and let Silver run off his fear.

I risked a look over my shoulder and saw Khaki Man ditch the path, same as the horse had. I clutched the edge of the saddle, ducking low under branches and shrieking as the horse jumped rocks and fallen tree limbs. Blood rushed through my veins and hoof beats thundered in my ears. I blinked rapidly, struggling to see through the wind whipping my hair in my face. I was going to die. The horse led me on a series of hairpin turns, and my pathetic, boring life flashed before my eyes, until he finally doubled back the way we’d just come.

Right in Khaki Man’s direction!

The man came to a stop and held his side, breathing heavy, his head hanging low. Silver didn’t seem to notice, or care, and just kept charging straight for him.

“Move out of the way,” I screamed.

Khaki Man’s head popped up just as I yanked on the reins for the millionth time, and the crazy horse chose that moment to finally listen. Digging in his hooves, he stopped short, and I went sailing over his head straight for my stalker.

I knocked the wind out of Khaki Man in a full-frontal tackle. Sometimes being six foot came in handy. Well, now that I was on top of him, I had to do something. And by something, I didn’t mean check out his produce. I rolled him over onto his belly. He wheezed as though trying to catch his breath, and I wrenched his arm up behind his back as I sat on his butt.

“Hey, lady. Ow, ow. Aw, c’mon, let up. You’re gonna break my arm. Is it a crime to get a little exercise?”

“Exercise, yeah right. No way, pal, I’m not buying your bull. I’m going to find that police officer and have him haul your sorry butt off to jail.”

“Haul
my
sorry ass off to jail? I’m not the one who stole his goddamn horse. When he finds you, he’s going to throw the book at you, babe.”

“I’m not your babe,” I ground out, then glanced at Silver.

He perked his ears and snorted as if to say,
You are so busted, lady
.

Stupid, stupid, stupid
. How had I missed the NYPD logo on the side of the saddle? And with my contacts in, no less. Besides, who else but a cop would have a horse in the city?