What She Wants Page 6

  “It was a lovely dinner, dear,” said their mother.

  “No, it wasn’t.” Juliet frowned at the frosted yuck on her plate. “I’m sorry, Mom. I wanted this day to be special.”

  “It is.” Mom swept her gaze around the table. “I’m with all of you and that makes it perfect. But if you want to top it off...”

  “I’ll go get ice cream,” Neil offered.

  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking of anything to eat. I was thinking of—”

  “Farkle,” Jonathan and Juliet finished with her. Their family had played a lot of games when Jonathan was growing up, and his mother still loved to beat him at Words With Friends. He’d gotten Farkle for her last Christmas and it had become a new favorite.

  “I just happen to have it in my purse,” Mom said with a grin.

  Jonathan wouldn’t have been surprised to hear she had the entire population of Luxembourg in there, too. How much stuff women could fit in their purses amazed him.

  “Dice,” Neil said, rubbing his hands together. “That’s a game even I can get into.”

  Unlike their family, Neil wasn’t much of a game player, unless it involved a football and a good dose of aggression. He was a big, well-muscled guy, who used those muscles working in the Sweet Dreams warehouse. Today Jonathan couldn’t help thinking (with only a tinge of jealousy) that his brother-in-law could pose for a cover on one of Juliet’s books.

  Neil’s looks—that was what had hooked her in the first place. Jonathan wasn’t sure what kept her hooked, although she seemed happy enough with her choice. Other than going dancing at the Red Barn, their favorite honky tonk, they didn’t appear to have much in common. Juliet loved to read. About the only thing Neil read was the sports page. When it came to movies, she liked chick flicks and Neil preferred action movies. He was big on eating, she was bad at cooking. Family was everything to her. His family was dysfunctional and he’d moved as far away from them as possible. And he never seemed that excited to see hers.

  Although maybe Jonathan was imagining that, because he always felt a little uncomfortable around Neil, rather like a mule standing next to a Thoroughbred racehorse.

  Mom had taken the can of dice out of her purse and Jonathan pulled his mind away from thoughts of mules and horses. But later that evening, when he got back home, he found himself revisiting the subject. Some men just seemed to be born babe magnets. Others...

  Well, Chica loved him.

  She rushed out her dog door to greet him the minute he pulled up back at the house. “Did you miss me, girl?” he asked.

  Chica woofed and wagged her tail. Yes.

  “I bet you’re ready for some fetch, huh?” He grabbed her tennis ball from the porch and threw it for her and she raced after it. Dogs were so easy to please. If only it was as easy to please a woman.

  After a rousing game of fetch they went inside the house, and that was when Jonathan discovered his loss. Chica had developed a taste for romance and had devoured two of his library book sale paperbacks.

  “Aw, Chica,” he said in disgust as he surveyed the mess of mangled books and shredded paper on the couch and the living room floor. He picked up what was left of one cover and saw that the Viscount Vampire now bore canine teeth marks all over his face and neck. He’d survived better than the cowboy. All Jonathan could find of him was his Stetson.

  He shook the fragment at Chica. “What is this?”

  Her tail curled between her legs and her head hung. She turned, slinking off toward the kitchen.

  “Yeah, you should be ashamed. Bad dog!” She had a dog door and a huge yard to play in. She didn’t need to swipe his books and eat them. “Why did you do that?” he demanded. She didn’t make a habit of eating his books. But then, he didn’t make a habit of leaving them lying around on the couch. And, he had to admit, these had smelled a little musty. Maybe Chica had mistaken them for something dead.

  Well, they were as good as dead now, he thought.

  He picked up part of a page and read.

  “Armande, I have never met a man like you,” breathed the contessa.

  “And you never will. I will satisfy your every desire. Forever,” he whispered as he gently lifted her hair, exposing her lovely white neck.

  Desire and a lovely white neck—that was all he was going to see of the contessa and Armande. Jonathan retrieved the waste can from under the kitchen sink and got to work.

  Chica watched as he cleaned up the mess.

  “Yeah, you did this. Those were research, you know,” he informed her.

  She whined.

  He relented. “Okay, you’re forgiven. Come here.”

  She came, her tail wagging hopefully.

  He knelt and pulled her against him and rubbed her head. “I guess those books just looked too good to resist, huh?”

  She licked his face.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know, you’re sorry. I’ll find ’em online and download them on to my e-reader. But no more eating my books, okay?”

  Chica barked. Okay.

  Once the mess was cleaned up, he’d spend some time on the island of Crete, with a suave tycoon and a beautiful businesswoman. He’d snitched The Undercover Tycoon from Juliet. He’d spotted it lying on top of a pile of books on the stairs and, unable to stop himself, had pinched it and smuggled it out in the pocket of his windbreaker. She’d happily have lent it to him if he asked, but no way was he asking to borrow one of Juliet’s romance novels. He’d never have heard the end of it, especially from Neil. He’d managed to get it out of the house undetected and he’d get it back in the same way. Nobody would be the wiser.

  “No eating this one,” he told Chica, showing it to her. “It’s not ours.”

  She yawned and settled down next to him on the couch.

  This story had a contemporary setting, and it didn’t take long for him to get involved in the plot. Although the hero and heroine were hot for each other, something was standing in the way of their love—the business. Her family used to own it but now she only ran it. And the tycoon wanted to sell it out from under her.

  As Jonathan read, he made notes on his iPad, treating the novel as if it were a college textbook, the same as he’d done with the other book he’d read. This particular hero seemed to have an overabundance of testosterone. He was strong and forceful, and while he and the heroine clashed—a lot—she seemed to appreciate that forcefulness. So, women wanted a man who was forceful, a take-charge kind of guy.

  Jonathan added that attribute to the list he’d started. Forceful, take-charge. He could be forceful. Maybe.

  * * *

  Adam returned from his Alaskan adventure late Sunday night to make a shocking discovery. His key didn’t work in the lock. He wasn’t dreaming and he wasn’t drunk. This was the right house. His house. But his key didn’t work. Even finding the lock had been a pain since his wife hadn’t left the porch light on. What the hell?

  He rang the doorbell.

  No one came.

  He rang again.

  Still no one.

  Chelsea’s car was there. What was going on? “Chels,” he called. “Chelsea?”

  Finally the entry hall light went on and he saw the shadow of a slim body on the other side of the frosted glass panel. She must have fallen asleep.

  That in itself was odd. She always waited up for him.

  Now she was at the door but it didn’t open. And the porch light stayed off, leaving him standing there in the dark.

  Her voice drifted out to him, muffled and distant. “Go away, Adam.”

  What? “Let me in. My key won’t work.”

  “It won’t work because I had the locks changed,” said the voice.

  Maybe he was dreaming, after all. Or she was joking. “Okay, babe, you’ve had your laugh. Now open up.”

  Instead of opening the door, she turned off the entry light and disappeared. “Chels!” He banged on the door. “This isn’t funny anymore. Open up.”

  One neighbor was two wooded lots away and whoever had purchas
ed the house next door hadn’t moved in yet. Still, he caught himself checking over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard. He felt like a fool standing there, demanding entrance into his own house. Changing the locks, that wasn’t even legal. But what was he going to do, call the cops? He’d wind up sleeping on the couch for the rest of his life.

  This was nuts. He took out his cell phone and dialed her.

  “What?” she answered.

  What, indeed? Who was this snappish woman?

  “Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” he asked.

  An upstairs light went on and a window opened. Their bedroom. For a moment he saw her face, framed by the bedroom light. Chelsea had long, chestnut hair, big hazel eyes and Angelina Jolie lips. The lips weren’t smiling.

  She held a box wrapped in white paper and tied with a pink ribbon. He recognized that box. And now she was going to... Oh, no. That was breakable. “Don’t—” he began.

  Too late. She dropped it. The box landed with a crunch. So much for the candy dish the clerk at Mountain Treasures had convinced him to buy.

  His wife had lost her mind. “What are you doing?”

  A moment later, something else came fluttering down, like a poorly designed paper airplane—the card that went with the box.

  “All right,” he said into the cell phone. “What was that all about?”

  “Guess.”

  “You didn’t want to give my mom anything for her birthday?”

  Wrong guess. The call ended and the bedroom window slammed shut.

  He called her again. “I don’t get it.”

  “Does the number seven mean anything to you?”

  Seven, seven. Crap! Their anniversary. Their anniversary was this weekend and he’d forgotten. “Shit,” he muttered.

  “Yeah, that’s what you’re in,” she said. “It was bad enough you just had to stay up in Alaska and fish, but not to send flowers, not even call...”

  “I called.” That was feeble. He’d left a message on voice mail telling her what time he’d be in. No mention of their anniversary.

  Because he’d forgotten. Forgotten! What was wrong with his brain? A twenty-pound salmon, that was what. He felt sick.

  “And then I found the package and thought you’d left it as a surprise.” Her voice was wobbly now, a sure sign that she was crying. “And what was it? Your mother’s birthday present. And her birthday isn’t until next week. And I already bought something because you never remember!”

  He wouldn’t have remembered this year, either, except he’d been talking to his mom on his cell a few days ago and she’d dropped a hint when he happened to be downtown, walking past a shop. More than a hint. She’d come right out and said, “Your wife is not your personal secretary, Adam, and you should be able to remember your own mother’s birthday.”

  Yeah, and he should’ve been able to remember his own anniversary, but he hadn’t. He’d stuck his mom’s present in the closet and forgotten about it. Just like he’d forgotten another important date. “I knew it was coming up,” he said. No lie. He’d planned to remember. Lame.

  “This is the last straw. I’m tired of you taking me for granted. You do it all the time.”

  “I do not,” he insisted, both to her and himself.

  “Oh, yes, you do. And this isn’t the first time you’ve messed up.”

  All right, so he’d accidentally gotten tickets to a Mariners game on the day of their anniversary the year before last. And she’d never have known he’d screwed up if his brother Greg hadn’t called from Seattle asking what time they were meeting at the stadium. He’d done penance and gotten her diamond earrings. A whole carat, for God’s sake. He’d even taken her to the game and they’d ended up having a great evening.

  And last year he’d remembered. She hadn’t needed to remind him the week before. Why did women keep score like that? They kept track of every screw-up and then threw it in your face. In the middle of the night.

  “Oh, come on, babe. Cut me some slack. Let’s talk about this.” She always wanted to talk.

  Not tonight. She ended the call and the bedroom light switched off.

  Of course he tried to call her once more, but it immediately went to voice mail.

  Great. Just great. Where would he go at eleven-thirty at night? He supposed he could go to one of the town’s B and Bs, but if he did that, everyone would know his wife had kicked him out.

  Since this was only temporary, he saw no point in going that route. Tomorrow he’d take her out to dinner. They’d kiss and make up and everything would be fine.

  Meanwhile, though, he couldn’t sleep on the porch. He hauled his carry-on back to the car. If that was the way she wanted it, he could sleep there. Except while an SUV would be okay for sleeping, it made for a poor place to shave in the morning.

  He started the engine and drove slowly away from his house. His house! He had no idea where he was going. He sure knew where he was, though. In the doghouse.

  * * *

  Jonathan was having an incredible dream. He’d just killed a man in a sword fight, and now the woman he’d rescued—Lissa, in an old-fashioned pink gown—had thrown herself into his arms.

  “How can I thank you?” she breathed.

  “Well,” he said, and lowered his head to kiss her.

  “Oh, wait. What’s that I hear?” she said, turning her head just before he could reach her lips. “The church bells.”

  “That’s the bells, all right,” he agreed, and tried for her lips again.

  “They’re summoning you. You must go.”

  “Who’s summoning me?”

  He never found out. Between the insistent ringing of his doorbell, coupled with pounding on the door and Chica’s barking, he was now hopelessly awake.

  He checked the time. Midnight! He swore and threw off the covers, marched out of the bedroom and flicked on the hall light, Chica running ahead of him. Whoever it was, Jonathan was going to kill him.

  But then he realized that anyone summoning him at this hour must be in trouble. Juliet! She’d had a fight with Neil?

  He picked up his pace. By the time he got to the living room, his visitor was not only ringing the bell and banging on the door, but calling his name, as well. Definitely not Juliet.

  Jonathan opened the door and there stood Adam. “I need a place to sleep.”

  “Huh?”

  “Can I crash on your couch?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Jonathan said, and stepped aside.

  In walked Mr. Success, dragging his carry-on luggage behind him. “Chelsea kicked me out.”

  “’Cause you went salmon-fishing?” That seemed a little extreme.

  “No, because I forgot our anniversary.”

  Jonathan, no expert on women, still knew this was a cardinal sin. “How’d you manage that?” If he was with Lissa he’d never forget their anniversary. Heck, he’d make everything an anniversary—first date, first kiss, first time they slept together. At the rate he was going, that wasn’t even happening in his dreams.

  Adam paced into the living room and parked his carry-on next to Jonathan’s couch. He ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to forget.” He fell onto the couch. “She says I take her for granted.”

  “Do you?”

  “No. Well, maybe. Once in a while. I don’t know.”

  Like hell he didn’t. “Right.”

  “Okay, so I’m not perfect like those men on the covers of her dumb romance novels.”

  Jonathan caught sight of his Vanessa Valentine paperback on the kitchen counter and subtly dragged his copy of PC World over it.

  Adam never noticed. He was too involved in his own drama. “But cut a man some slack, you know?”

  Jonathan didn’t know.

  “She changed the locks.”

  Whoa. His friend had sailed down the river of no return. “That’s harsh.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Adam said. “Anyway, I know we’ll get it all straightened out tomorrow.”

&nb
sp; And now who was dreaming?

  “Sorry to get you out of bed. You were the first one who came to mind.”

  Vance lived right down the road from Adam, but Jonathan understood why Adam hadn’t gone there. Vance would have taken great delight in taunting him. Whereas Jonathan...was a soft touch.

  “I just need a place for tonight.”

  Jonathan had a suspicion that his poker pal was going to need a place for longer than one night, but this probably wasn’t the time to point that out. Anyway, he was tired and he wanted to get back to bed. Back to Lissa in her pink gown. He pulled a sleeping bag out of the closet and tossed it to Adam.

  “Thanks, man,” Adam said. “I’ll get this sorted out in the morning. Right now, I just need a good night’s sleep.”

  He needed a lot more than sleep. Jonathan didn’t tell him that, either. Some things a man had to figure out for himself.

  Chapter Five

  Jonathan never found Lissa again. Every time he drifted off, he was awakened by the sound of a rumbling train. It didn’t take more than the first rude awakening for him to realize that no one had built a train track through his house in the night. No, the horrible noise that dragged him from his dreamland search for Lissa had been Adam’s snoring.

  He finally gave up on sleep around seven to find Adam still zonked out on his couch, like a giant caterpillar half out of his sleeping bag cocoon, his hair going every which way and his mouth hanging open. There was a sight a guy didn’t need to wake up to.

  Coffee. He needed coffee.

  He had a handy-dandy little coffeemaker that delivered one serving at a time, and he made himself a mug. The aroma of brewing java sure would’ve awakened Jonathan, but Adam slept on. How could the guy sleep so well when his wife had kicked him out? And didn’t he have to be at work? Jonathan’s schedule was flexible and depended on what clients he had lined up for the day, but he assumed that on a Monday Adam would have to report in to his office.

  Not your problem, he told himself as he filled Chica’s dog bowl. You’re not his mother.