Her Fifth Husband? Read online

  “You moonlight as a nurse, right?” she snapped, and was immediately ashamed of herself. She refused to apologize, and that bothered her even more, because she knew better.

  Without a word he blotted the rings of moisture from the coffee table, then replaced her magazines and sample books. That mouth of his that could look so sensuous in unguarded moments had tightened into a grim line.

  Sasha felt lower than dirt, yet she couldn’t bring herself to apologize for her rudeness. God, she was wicked! That saying about pride going before a fall had been one of her father’s favorite quotations, usually uttered right before he attempted to beat the pride out of her.

  Obviously it hadn’t worked.

  Jake stepped back, his face expressionless. “If you’re sure you don’t need anything else, I’ll be leaving. Don’t forget to ice up again.”

  “Hand me my purse before you go, I haven’t paid you for lunch. I owe you gas money, too.”

  He looked annoyed, but his voice remained calm. “Just make sure you call someone to sit with you. Tell ’em to bring a book so you won’t have to entertain them if you’d rather not, but you’re in no shape to take care of yourself.”

  “Oh, go to hell,” she shot back. This time she really would have apologized, but before she could find the words, he was gone. Twisting around to look through the front window, she watched him stride down the front walk. Lordamercy, he looked like a storm waiting to happen. Not that she could blame him.

  “Why do I do these things?” she moaned, flopping back onto the cushions. Talk about being your own worst enemy.

  Jake was halfway across the Currituck Sound when his cell phone sounded reveille. He punched on and before he could say a word Sasha started rattling off what sounded like an apology, with a garbled explanation that he was in no mood to hear. He broke in, reminding her that she would need someone to take her to Kitty Hawk for her car once she was able to drive again.

  “Don’t you worry about that one bit,” she said earnestly, “I have lots of friends.”

  He assured her he wasn’t worried in the least.

  So how come, he wondered as he replaced the phone in its holder, he was trying to think of some excuse to turn around and go back to Muddy Landing?

  As to that, how the hell had she gotten hold of his number?

  “Dammit, Hack, you know better than to give out my number,” Jake said some forty-five minutes later as he slammed the door of his office. The whole damn place reeked of paint. No wonder Miss Martha found so many reasons to stay away. He’d have opened all the windows and cut off the air-conditioning, but Hack insisted the ever-present humidity was lethal to computers.

  “The Lasiter woman? Hey, she called here and shot me this line of bull about leaving something in your car. How was I to know she wasn’t on the level?”

  “You’re paid to know, dammit.”

  “Whoa, I’m paid to put together the stuff you design and then see that it works. Miss Martha’s supposed to handle the phone—that’s what you hired her for—only she left early today to go to a funeral. Where you been, anyhow? The Jamison woman called a few hours ago, said for you to call her right back. I tried to get you.”

  Jake expressed himself in a single succinct oath. A few hours ago he’d been on his way to the emergency room. Hack could have reached him easily…except that he’d left his cell phone in the car.

  He had already punched in the first three digits of the Jamison woman’s number when it hit him. He didn’t have a damn thing to report—at least nothing that was going to help her case.

  He replaced the phone without completing the call while Hack looked on, his thin face showing equal parts of amusement and curiosity. Without a word, Jake opened the door to his private office, which was roughly the size of three phone booths and was currently crowded with five phone-booths’ worth of stuff that had been shifted from room to room as the painting progressed. The entire duplex was undergoing repairs that had been put off too long. The roof had been damaged in last fall’s hurricane and a tree had damaged it further when it had fallen on one corner of the house during a hard northeaster. Things were generally in a mess.

  And so was he.

  Her shoe. When he’d carried her downstairs from the sundeck, he’d scooped it up and stuck it in his hip pocket, then tossed it onto the back seat. No way was she going to get those straps around her ankle anytime soon, but if she wanted the thing, he could drop it off tomorrow. Or the next day. No hurry, he told himself as he reached for the Jamison file.

  On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to call and let her know he had it.

  Sasha hobbled to the bedroom and changed into something more comfortable, then took out a bag of corn from the freezer and settled back on the couch to call her friend. Marty and Greg had just returned from honeymooning at a place called Isla Mujeres, otherwise known as the island of women, in the Mexican Caribbean. “Hi, you rested up from all those sleepless nights yet?”

  She switched the phone to the other ear and adjusted the cold pack on her ankle. Earlier she’d removed the bandage to see how bad it looked, as if she’d needed the reminder of just how stupid she could be when she put her mind to it. From now on whenever she had any more than three steps to climb, she would wear sensible shoes if it killed her—as it probably would. Anything labeled sensible was definitely lethal to the ego.

  “Look, I might have somebody for Lily,” Sasha said without preamble, and then had to wait through another rapturous description of everything from the Mexican cuisine to the music to the local legends. She’d heard it all yesterday. “About this man for Lily?” she said when her friend paused for breath. “I’m pretty sure he’s single. He’s about an eleven on a scale of ten, and—”

  She listened to a spate of questions and a recipe for huevos rancheros, Isla-style. When she could squeeze in another word, she said, “Thanks, hon. Compared to Faylene I’m a regular Julia Child, but I’m not about to try to cook anything I can’t spell. Now, back to Jake—I don’t know if he’s currently involved or not, we’ll need to check on it, but—”

  Sasha tapped her remaining acrylic nails on the coffee table as her thoughts returned to the man who had taken her other shoe and thrown it away, for all she knew. He hadn’t called back, but then, she’d been on the phone practically ever since he’d left. First she’d called her friend Daisy to see when the baby was due, then she’d called the hospital to ask how long before she could drive again.

  Evidently the hospital wasn’t about to invite a lawsuit by offering an opinion without another on-site examination, which wasn’t even a faint possibility. She had several hundred dollars more out-of-pocket expense before her high-deductible insurance would kick in. She wasn’t even certain how her policy treated emergency-room visits, as she hadn’t bothered to read the fine print.

  “Who, Daisy?” she repeated as Marty’s excited voice recalled her to the present. “She’s due in about three weeks, I just talked to her. Greg promised to let me know, and I’ll fly out.”

  “But you hate flying,” Marty reminded her.

  “My sinuses hate flying. The rest of me can take it or leave it, as long as it’s in first class.” For Daisy, she would risk a monster headache. The third member of the original matchmaking trio, Daisy was expecting in June, and Sasha had promised to stand as the baby’s godmother. A godchild, even one out in Oklahoma, might help fill the sense of emptiness that been growing inside her for years.

  It was that same feeling of emptiness, not to mention a ticking biological clock that had driven her through four marriages in search of a prospective father for the child she wanted so desperately. She’d been married to husband number four when she discovered that, thanks to an early bout of endometriosis, her prospects for motherhood were dismal, at best.

  “Okay, hon, then I’ll see you in a day or so,” she promised and laid her cell phone on top of a wallpaper sample book.

  The antique monkey chair made an acceptable walker as long as
she took care to plant all four legs squarely on the floor. She hadn’t mentioned her accident to Marty, knowing her friend would drop everything and rush over. If there was one thing Sasha didn’t need, it was hovering friends. She’d been called the proverbial hog on ice more than once, but she prided herself on her independence. It hadn’t come easy.

  She was halfway to the kitchen to exchange defrosted corn for frozen peas when the phone rang again. She was tempted to ignore it, but she’d been expecting a call from the Driftwinds property manager.

  Instead of Katie McIver, she heard a male voice that affected her like velvet sliding over naked skin. “Hi, Cinderella, you missing a slipper?”

  Four

  “You have my shoe?” she said breathlessly. Sasha was never breathless, not unless she’d just dashed up three flights of stairs. Definitely not over the mere sound of a voice—or even over half a pair of shoes that had cost far more than she could afford. As miserable as they were, the suffering was worth it when it added five extra inches to her height and called attention to her best feature—her legs.

  “The heel’s pretty messed up,” Jake told her, “I guess you could peel off the rest of the leather and paint it to match the other one. Want me to bring it to you?”

  “Oh, that’s too much trouble.” Unconsciously, she smoothed her disheveled hair. She was wearing her comfortable old caftan and hadn’t bothered to put on her face.

  “I’ll be up in your neck of the woods this afternoon.” He paused, as if testing the atmosphere. “I could drop it off then.”

  She wanted to tell him not to bother, but even more than she wanted her ruined shoe back, she wanted to see him again. Considering the way they’d met—considering even more her deplorable record with men—it didn’t make a speck of sense. But there it was. All she had to do was look at Jake Smith to forget everything she’d ever learned about men. He wasn’t even all that handsome, technically speaking. But then, fancy looks, fancy clothes, fancy cars and fancy manners weren’t worth a lick of spit when push came to shove.

  At least nothing about Jake Smith was fancy.

  Nothing except for the way he made her feel.

  Besides, he’d already seen her at her worst, looking like a raccoon with eye makeup smeared over half her face, wearing an ancient caftan that should have been relegated to the rag bag years ago. And that was even before he’d risked a hernia by carrying her down all those stairs.

  Had anyone ever noticed that good Samaritans could be sexy as well as useful?

  “I suppose as long as you’re coming this way, you might as well drop it off,” she said as graciously as possible.

  “See you in about an hour, then. You need anything I could pick up for you? I’ll be passing by a couple of shopping centers.”

  Her mind fogged out on her. All she could think of was her hair, her face—the awful thing she was wearing.

  “No? Okay, see you later then. If you think of anything you need, call me on my cell phone, all right? You have the number.”

  He waited. She waited. Neither of them spoke until he said, “Where are you, anyway, lying down?”

  “I’m halfway between the living room and the kitchen,” she told him as she clumped her way toward the sofa.

  “Have you iced up lately? Look, the sooner you quit fooling around, the sooner you’ll be able to drive again.”

  She was tempted to ask if that meant she had a choice between driving or fooling around. Fortunately, common sense intervened, because the choice was not even close.

  He’s for Lily, you dunce!

  Nearly two hours passed before Jake pulled up in front of the lavender house with the dark green trim. He glanced at the rearview mirror and raked a hand through his hair. He was overdue a trim, but at least he was freshly shaved. Restless, he’d woken about five and gone next door to the office, where he’d made inroads in the stack of paperwork on his desk until the roofers had started hammering.

  Shortly after that, Hack and Miss Martha had come in and he’d gone next door to shower and shave before the crew arrived to finish painting. A few more days, he thought as he headed north on the bypass, and the old place was going to look pretty damn good, if he did say so himself.

  He happened to be wearing the new polo shirt Timmy had given him for his last birthday. Jake had taken it as a hint that his wardrobe could use some attention—at least the kid hadn’t given him a necktie. He’d even splashed on a little cologne, God knows why. Keep the stuff from going bad in the bottle, probably. He never used it.

  Some forty-five minutes later he reached into the back seat for the paper cone of flowers. They’d been right beside the checkout counter at the grocery store. He’d made a quick stop, figuring Sasha probably needed a few basics—more frozen vegetables, maybe some juice, a six-pack of canned drinks and a box of doughnuts. Milk, too, because bones needed calcium. And flowers because—because, well, why not?

  He punched the doorbell and then tried the knob. It turned and the door opened. “Sasha? Don’t get up.” A security specialist, he thought about mentioning her unlocked door but decided against it. Right now she didn’t need to be jumping up every time the doorbell rang.

  With two plastic sacks and the six-pack in one hand, the flowers in the other, he peered into the living room. “There you are,” he said, stating the obvious.

  And there she was, looking even better than he’d remembered.

  Jake had never been partial to redheads—he’d never been partial to any particular type, for that matter. Rosemary had been tall, lean, blond and athletic. But the way Sasha looked with her hair all soft and coppery around her face and her eyes shining like emeralds—

  Emeralds? Yesterday they’d been blue.

  The day before that they’d been tan.

  “Those are lovely,” she said, her full red lips widening in a smile.

  Jake stared at the bouquet he was holding as if he’d never seen the thing before. “Uh—yeah, they caught my eye, too, so I thought I might as well…” He shrugged. “You got a vase or something? They probably need some water.”

  Damn, he thought as he ran water into a tall crystal vase he’d found following her directions, you’d think he was Timmy’s age instead of old enough not only to have sown his oats, but harvested the crop.

  He put the drinks in the refrigerator, the frozen vegetables that he’d selected by feel and not by label, in the freezer. The doughnuts, he left on the table. “You need more ice on your ankle?” he called.

  “I guess so. It’s been a while.”

  “How about something cold to drink? Or I could make coffee.”

  “Yes to the first two offers, but not the coffee. Did you bring my shoe?”

  Jake nearly dropped a tray of ice. Her shoe. He’d left it on the dresser in his bedroom. Like a damned trophy.

  Nothing to do but admit it. “Look, I know this is crazy, but I walked right out and forgot the thing. I can go back home right now and get it if—”

  She waved him to a chair. “Don’t be silly, it’s not like I’ll be wearing it anytime soon.”

  “Good thing, too. Shoes like that are just asking for trouble.”

  Ignoring him, she said, “First I’ll have to get the heel repaired.”

  He shook his head. Women. “Why do you wear those things, anyway?”

  “You mean ankle straps?” She batted a set of black eyelashes that had to be at least as long as her red fingernails.

  “I mean ten-inch heels.” A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. She was teasing him, and damned if he didn’t like it.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m slightly height-challenged.”

  “Short, you mean.”

  “Well, if you insist on being literal, I’m short and dumpy. And as long as I’m in confession mode, I wasn’t born with this shade of hair, either.” Laughter trembled on her lips and sparkled through her green contact lenses.

  He crooked a grin. “Neither was I. The hair thing.”

&nb
sp; “You mean you weren’t born gray?” she asked, all innocence.

  “Believe it or not, I started out as a blond. By the time I was twenty it had turned dark. And yeah, lately the colors have started to change again.”

  “I started out the color of broom sedge, which is sort of red, I guess. Once I discovered my creative side, I started playing around with colors.”

  He looked pointedly at her hair. It was currently somewhere between spice-red and maroon and had been cut in varying lengths and gathered up so that it looked carelessly disheveled. “I look ghastly as a brunette,” she admitted cheerfully. “I tried several shades of blond, but you know what? I don’t care what they say, I never had that much fun as a blonde.”

  “And fun’s the name of the game, right, Ms. Napoleon?”

  “Nope. The name of the game is power,” she said gravely, and then burst out laughing. “You’re fun, did you know that?”

  “Oh, yeah—everybody says so. Regular life of the party. Here, let me refill that glass for you.” He stood, knowing he should leave before he got in any deeper. What was it about this woman that made him want to explore every inch of her devious mind?

  Her mind. Right.

  And that wasn’t Jake Smith the private investigator speaking, it was Jake Smith, the man.

  She leaned back against a pile of oversize pillows, reminding him of a poster he’d once seen of Mae West. Had the come-up-and-see-me-sometime expression down pat, too.

  “Did you play sports in school?” she asked. “Is that where you broke your nose?” Her gaze strayed from his nose to his mouth and back again.

  “How’d you know it had been broken?”

  “Just a lucky guess. My brother played football. He was a quarterback.”

  “Pro?”

  She shook her head. Her playful look faded. “Just high school. He went to a community college and then joined the sheriff’s department. He was killed the first year in an attempted jailbreak.”

  Jake sagged in his chair. What did you say to something like that? While he was still trying to come up with a response that didn’t sound trite, she said, “I’m sorry. You’re hardly interested in my family. I don’t know why that popped out—frustration, probably. Being stuck here thinking about all the things I need to be doing.”