Diane Pershing - Whispers and Lies

But there were still questions to be asked and answers to be recorded, so he plowed on. “Yeah, I’m pushing a bit. Put it down to not responding well to the word no,” he said truthfully. “I’m feeling challenged. I’m a reporter, remember? Getting past no is our stock in trade.” He followed that one up with another of his smiles, which he’d been told could melt the socks off anyone.

And it worked. Sort of. He saw interest, hesitation, interest again. The silence between them stretched while he waited.

Then he decided not to wait anymore. Moving away from the table, he stepped even closer to her. “Okay. Let me lay my cards on the table. I’m as surprised as you are, but the minute I saw you in the waiting room, I was struck by this weird sense of—” he shrugged “—I don’t know. For want of a better word, let’s call it attraction.”

Her eyes widened. Obviously, she hadn’t expected this. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh.’ You were amazing.”

“I was?”

“Yeah. Maybe it was the way you took care of business—briskly, but with humor. Or the way your eyes sparkled when you were barking orders to everyone. I like strong women. I don’t know. Whatever the reason, I thought I’d do what a person usually does when they’re attracted to someone. They ask if they can see them again.”

Her face was now red with embarrassment. Mouth partly open, she gazed at him in wonder. “Holy cow,” she said slowly. “Do you do this a lot?”

“Do what?”

“Pick up women in offices? With words out of some soap opera script where the bad but sexy villain is trying to dishonor the foolish heroine?”

He laughed, delighted, then splayed his hand over his heart. “Soap opera? You wound me to the quick.”

“Well, maybe not quite that corny,” she said with a reluctant little laugh of her own.

“But you do get my meaning?”

“How could I miss it?” Her face was still rosy.

“And?”

“And what?”

He offered a mock leer and winked. “Wanna get together, girlie?”

Again she laughed, then shook her head ruefully. “I’m totally…not sure.” Biting her lower lip, her lively brown eyes darted left and right, searching deep, as though trying to figure out how much sincerity lay beneath his banter. He counseled himself to give her all the time she needed.

“You, um, really are…attracted to me?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

Instead of answering, another frown formed between her brows. “I guess it is.” Then she gave a helpless little shrug. “Well…okay. Sure. I mean, when did you want to do this…coffee thing?”

“Today? Tonight?”

“Not possible,” she said abruptly, and he could tell that part of her, at least, was relieved. “I’ve been on my feet since four this morning. Maybe next week?”

“I’ll be back in D.C. next week.”

She made an ah, well gesture and said cheerfully, “Then that decides it. Sorry. See you at the wedding.”

And with that, she whipped around, walked briskly out the door and shut it in his face.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, Lou thought, leaning against the closed door and closing her eyes. Did I really just do that? Turn down a chance at a date with Will Jamison?

Was she a total idiot? Will Jamison! The boy turned man she’d had a crush on all through junior and senior high school and some time afterward. She might have stopped fantasizing about him years ago, but now it was all coming back to her in full, living color.

How many countless nights had she spent in flights of fancy about him? How many yearning, heartsick pages had she filled in her teenage journal, the one she’d finally burned? Back then, in the hormonal excess of youth, she would have done anything for him. One summer, she’d even submitted her tender skin to extreme discomfort when she’d had a tiny W tattooed on the underside of her left breast, near her heart. It was still there, although it had probably faded and shrunk some; with the recent weight loss, her boobs were much smaller.

She shook her head. Will Jamison. Six feet tall and as near to gorgeous as a man could be and still be all man. With his good looks, brains and popularity, he’d been the crown prince of their high school. And whatever he claimed today, she knew he had never known Lou McAndrews was alive.

But just now, he’d actually asked her out.

Another woman would have felt flattered, would have said sure, no problem, where and when? But for Lou, that reaction would have been too simple; what she felt instead was confused and somewhat sad, for the lonely overweight girl she’d been and the suspicious, untrusting woman she’d become, at least as far as men went.

At the moment, it was simply too much to deal with. Lou felt on edge, scattered, and not only because Mom had died so recently. After taking so much time off, she’d resumed her usual work hours and then some, still carrying her grief around with her like a too-heavy sack of gray rocks.

On top of that, these last few days she’d been plagued with an all-around feeling of jitteriness. She knew it was stupid, but it almost seemed as though she were under observation, as if someone were keeping tabs on her moves. Most likely it was her imagination. After all, she’d seen nothing suspicious, no shadows, no strangers ducking behind walls or windows as she passed.

It had to be because she was bone-weary: tired heads and tired eyes sometimes saw things that weren’t there.

But she couldn’t seem to shake it off. There was just this, well, this…feeling, that was all. Eyes watching her. Waiting for something. It gave her the creeps. As she thought about it now, she gave an involuntary shudder.

Rubbing her hands over her face, Lou told herself to cut it out. There was no time for stupid imaginings, not with the canines and felines, the ailing macaw and a hamster or two that needed her attention. Tending to them was a much better use of her time and a heck of a lot more productive than feeling paranoid.

Or mooning over Will Jamison.

At seven that evening, deep in thought even as she stifled a yawn, Lou locked the clinic door, turned around and bumped smack into a chest. A man’s chest. Reeling, she gave a startled cry, but before she could go into full panic mode, two hands had caught her by the shoulders and helped her to keep her balance.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She glanced up to see Will Jamison looking down at her, concern in his eyes. “Well, you sure did.”

Irritated with herself for overreacting, she shook off his grip, making him drop his hands to his side. In the fading light of day, she could see that he’d shaved, was wearing cargo pants, a loud Hawaiian shirt and brown sandals. He was dressed for the heat of July in upstate New York. Heck, he could have been wearing a prison uniform and he still would have looked mouthwateringly splendid.

She wished she’d thought to wash her face, brush back her hair or put on some lipstick. She felt dreary and unkempt, a kind of bone-weariness that sat on her shoulders like an anvil. She rotated her neck, which was way too tight; her nerves were really on edge. Before she turned her attention back to Will, she darted a quick look at her surroundings.

Nope. No one ducking suddenly into an alleyway, no strange cars containing men in dark suits and shades staring at her from behind tinted windows.

Was she slowly going nuts? Having some sort of posttraumatic reaction to her mother’s passing?

She shook her head, hoping it would unscramble her brains back to where they belonged, then returned her gaze to Will. “So here you are again. That’s two times in one day. Coincidence?”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve come to buy you dinner.”