Virginia Kantra - All A Man Can Ask

She picked up one of the trays and headed to the kitchen to rinse out the old paints in the sink. She was scrubbing burnt umber from the palette’s crevice when the doorbell rang.

Her heart began to thump. She turned off the water. She wasn’t expecting visitors. She didn’t know anyone in town, not really, and while she had left a forwarding address at the school, no one in Chicago cared where she’d gone. Mail delivery came around three and her aunt’s cottage was too far off the beaten path to attract many salesmen.

Drying her hands on a paper towel, she went to the door. A man’s tall outline blocked the afternoon sun. She squinted through the screen. Her misgiving swelled.

It was him.

Aleksy Denko.

Aleksy was used to one of two reactions when he knocked on a woman’s door. Either she stalled him while the man of the house bolted down the fire escape. Or, sooner or later, she invited him in for sex. Some women did both.

Faye Harper didn’t look like she would do either one.

She hung back in the shadow of the house, her arms crossed and her body language shouting “go away.” He didn’t hold it against her. Even with Jarek’s phone call smoothing the way, he probably made her nervous.

“It’s okay,” he said with an easy grin. He could do charming. Karen used to say it was his best interview technique, though he liked to think he had a nice line in subtly threatening, too. “I’m not selling anything.”

Faye Harper didn’t smile as he’d hoped and half expected. But she did take a half step closer to the screen. “That’s good. Because I’m not buying. Anything.”

This time his grin was for real. Score one for the cream puff. And she looked cute, with her short blond hair and her small pale face, scowling at him through the screen. Cute wasn’t his type, but he could understand the appeal.

“Well, now that we know where we stand, do you mind if I come in?”

She hesitated. “Will this take long?”

Not if she gave him what he wanted.

“I’ll try not to take up too much of your time,” he promised.

She unlocked the screen—he could have told her that was useless, any punk with a razor would cut through that flimsy barrier in seconds—and stepped aside to admit him. She smelled like spring flowers and line-dried sheets. He sniffed in appreciation.

She sniffed, too. “Can I see your ID?”

He gave her credit for asking and showed her his driver’s license.

She studied it gravely and then asked, “Don’t you have a badge?”

He winced. “A star,” he said. “We call them stars. Security guards have badges.”

The corners of her mouth dented, like she was amused, but she only said, “May I see it?”

He handed her the leather holder that held his detective’s star with its black metallic band and raised white letters. He saw her surprise as its weight registered.

She turned it in her hand. “Why didn’t you show this to the other officer this morning?”

She might be nervous, but she sure wasn’t dumb.

“I didn’t want to blow my cover,” he said. “I’m working a case.”

And if his lieutenant heard that one, he’d bust Aleksy’s butt down to traffic patrol.

Faye tipped her head to one side. “Then why tell me now?”

He tried for a little sincerity. “Because I need your help.”

“No.”

Okay. Screw sincerity. Back to charm. “Maybe help is too strong a word,” he said, leaning forward to take his star and her hand with it. “Cooperation.”

She withdrew her hand, leaving the leather holder behind. “You’ll have to recruit someone else. I’m not cooperating. Well, I’m not pressing charges, but that’s as much as I can do. I can’t afford to get involved. I’m here to rest and recover.”

He looked her over. She looked good to him. “Been sick?”

She had very fine skin. She flushed. “Not really.” But he noticed her left hand moved to cover her right wrist. Interesting.

“I’m on vacation,” she said.

Not cooperating. And not divulging much, either.

“Faye—can I call you Faye?—what do you do?”

She moved her shoulders uncomfortably. “I teach.”

That fit. He could see her in a kindergarten classroom, surrounded by adoring five-year-olds. She wasn’t much more than a kid herself, with her wide brown eyes and her short, messy hair. Under that ridiculous skirt she wore, her narrow feet were bare. Unbelievably he got turned on looking at her feet.

Poor timing.

Remember Karen.

Do the job.

He switched his gaze back to her face. “A teacher, huh? Where do you teach?”

“Lincoln High School.”

Lincoln? He almost whistled. The high school was adjacent to one of the most notorious projects in Chicago. Enrollment was high, graduation rates low, teacher burnout and turnover at epidemic rates. No wonder cream puff needed rest-and-recovery.

“What do you teach?” he asked, not just making conversation anymore.

“Art,” she said flatly.

They must eat her alive.

He wouldn’t mind a nibble himself.

But neither realization changed what he had to do.

Aleksy kept his voice low and his eyes level, inviting her trust. Implying a bond he was pretty sure she’d resist. “Well, then, I don’t need to talk to you about doing your public duty. Teachers, cops, social workers…we’re all on the same team.”

“I’m sorry. It’s been made painfully clear recently that I am not a team player.”

He grinned. “Funny, my lieutenant says the same thing about me.”

But Faye wasn’t laughing.

“Look, I don’t want to bother you,” Aleksy said. “I just need your permission to hang around for a few days.”

“A few days,” she repeated.

“Yeah.” Or a couple of weeks or however long it took to nail Karen’s murderer.

“Why?”

“I’ve got to keep an eye on some things and your place is convenient.”

“What kind of things?”

The hippie skirt and big lost eyes were deceptive. Under that flyaway blond hair, Faye Harper was sharp and stubborn. But when Aleksy was on a case, he was steel. He rubbed his jaw, pretending to consider. “I’m thinking the less I tell you about that, the less likely you are to be involved. You know?”

She frowned at having her own words turned back on her. “You promise I won’t be involved?”

Aleksy smiled, satisfied he had her. “You won’t even know I’m here,” he promised.

He lied, Faye thought three days later as she readied her paper for painting.

She couldn’t glance out her window or take out her trash without spotting Aleksy Denko ambling toward her woods or fishing from her dock. Even when he wasn’t there, the possibility that he might appear hurried her heartbeat and diffused her focus.

She pulled a half sheet from the soaking tray, holding it by one corner to drain the excess water.

It wasn’t that she was looking for him, she assured herself, giving the paper a gentle shake. Well, it wasn’t only that she was looking for him. Tall, dark and in-your-face was tough to miss.

She placed the sheet on the drying board and smoothed it from the center to remove air pockets, taking comfort in the familiar gestures and the flat blank page. Her painting might be lacking these days, but her preparation was faultless.

Clackety clackety clackety clackety clack.

Faye started, nearly tearing a corner of the wet paper. What on earth—?

The racket continued outside her windows, close to the house. Metal on metal, clackety clack. Wiping her hands on her skirt, she edged to the sliding doors and peered out.

Aleksy Denko, stripped to the waist, paraded across her strip of lawn, trundling her aunt’s old push mower in front of him. The rusty blades made a terrible sound.