A Word with the Bachelor (2 page)

The thing was, her perky disposition never slipped. Like yesterday when he'd said he wouldn't sleep with her, she'd calmly handled him. The only clue that he'd made her uncomfortable was the high color in her cheeks. Women weren't top secret to him; he knew when one liked what she saw. And from the moment he'd answered the door to Erin Riley, she'd looked at him that way. If she could see inside him, she'd run in the opposite direction.

Maybe this attitude of his was a way of initiating her, like boot camp, to see if he could get her to crack. If so, that made him a son of a bitch and he felt a little guilt, but managed to ignore it. Her insertion into his life hadn't been his idea. But like he'd said—he couldn't fire her. All he could do was discourage her.

So far that was a negative on dissuasion. Her sunny disposition made him want to put on his shades. Looking at her was like coming out of a pitch-dark room into light so bright it made your eyes hurt. Even her shoulder-length brown hair had sunlit, cheerful streaks running through it. And flecks of gold brightened her pretty green eyes. She wasn't extraordinarily beautiful, not like his ex-wife. But she was vulnerable, yet strong—a compelling combination somehow and he didn't want to be compelled.

“Jack?”

Hearing her say his name snapped him back. “What?”

“Talking about your work-in-progress might get the creative juices flowing.”

“That's not my process,” he said stubbornly.

“Okay.” She thought for a moment. “Then let's talk about what your process is.”

“You're like a pit bull.” Harley was in his bed beside the desk and he reached down to scratch the dog's head. Instantly the animal rolled onto his back and Jack almost smiled. “Once you sink your teeth in you don't let go.”

“Nice try.” Those flecks in her eyes darkened, making them more brown than green. She looked like a teacher who'd just figured out someone was attempting to pull a fast one. “You're trying to deflect attention from yourself. Let's get something straight, Jack. This isn't about me.”

So that flanking maneuver didn't work. Time for a contingency plan. “I have the situation under control.”

“Good. All you have to do is give Cheryl a firm date for manuscript delivery.”

He couldn't exactly do that. “I'm still working out some plot details.”

“Okay. So let's talk about that.”

“Look, Erin, my name and mine alone is on the front of the book. The content is my personal responsibility and I take that very seriously. I don't write by committee.”

“Ah,” she said, as if just understanding something.

“What does that mean?” He was pretty sure his facial expression wasn't easy to read, unlike hers.

“I had a similar conversation when I worked with Corinne Carlisle. She was uncomfortable in the beginning of our cooperative efforts. A clandestine collaboration, she called it. I thought that was a personal quirk of hers, or a chick thing.”

“It wasn't?”

She shook her head. “I believe it's a writer thing.”

“Call it what you want. I just prefer to work alone.”

His gaze was drawn to her legs when she crossed one over the other. The jeans she was wearing were a little loose and left too much to the imagination because he suspected the hidden curves would be well worth a look. Probably a good thing the denim wasn't skintight. It would only be a distraction that he didn't want or need.

“Alone.” She nodded her understanding of his statement. “I heard you were a loner.”

“Oh?”

“Cheryl explained the downside of this assignment. She made sure I knew that you don't play well with others.”

The words hung in the air between them for several moments. Jack couldn't tell whether or not that was a criticism. It really didn't matter. On the upside, maybe she was finally getting the message.

“By definition a loner needs to be alone.”

“I understand.” Her tone was soothing, like a shrink would use, or a hostage negotiator.

“Don't patronize me,” he said.

“I'm sorry you feel I'm doing that. It wasn't my intention.” She stopped for a moment, thinking, as if to come up with the right words to make him understand. “I respect your commitment to responsibility in writing the book you want to write. But I have undertaken this assignment and Cheryl is expecting tangible results. I'm not backing down from the challenge of you. It's best you accept that. So, we have to start somewhere.”

“And you think talking about the story is the way to go.”

“It worked for Corinne.” She folded her hands in her lap. “If you have a better idea that would be awesome.”

“Look, I appreciate your willingness and enthusiasm.” Although he could think of better uses for it. “But I write action-adventure. A woman like you has no frame of reference for that so talking is a complete waste of time.”

“I haven't been in the military or gone to war if that's what you're saying. But I read extensively and go to the movies. I can help you dissect the plot. I have ideas and that can be helpful.”

He'd started his last book as a therapeutic exercise to work through all the crap life had thrown at him. Pulling that stuff up was like exposing his soul. Doing that with her just wasn't going to happen. For reasons he couldn't explain, he didn't want her to see the darkness inside him.

“Ideas?” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the unnaturally tidy top of his desk. “You're Pollyanna. No offense, but you can't possibly have suggestions for what I write.”

“Really?” She sat up straighter in the chair, almost literally stiffening her spine.

“In my opinion, yes.”

“It's hard to form an opinion without information and you don't know anything about me if you truly believe I've had no life experiences.”

“So you were engaged. There was a proposal. Probably a ring. Not a big deal.” He saw something slip into her eyes but it didn't stop him. He'd been engaged once, too, even took the next step and got married. It didn't work out for a lot of reasons, but mostly he wasn't very good at being a husband. “Since you used past tense I guess you broke up with him. Still not gritty—”

“He died. Whether it happens in a war zone or the home front, death is not pretty. It's raw and painful. I think that qualifies as life experience.”

He studied her and realized his mission, real or invented, had been successful. He'd managed to put clouds in her eyes and make the sunshine disappear.

Damned if he didn't want to undo what he'd just done.

Chapter Two

E
rin sat in the passenger seat of Jack's rugged jeep trying to figure him out. First he'd said he had no use for her, then later in the afternoon offered to take her into town. She had a long-term rental car from the airport and was prepared to shop on her own, but he'd insisted on driving. His excuse was that they might as well buy supplies together, but she had a sneaking suspicion there was another reason. One that would tarnish his tough-guy image.

“So, Jack,” she began, “I think your ogre act is just that. An act.”

He turned right onto Lakeview Drive, then gave her a quick, questioning look. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“You were all gruff and abrupt earlier. Patronizing me about a ring, a proposal and a broken engagement being the equivalent of a hangnail in the action-adventure world.”

“It is.” His profile could have been carved in stone on Mt. Rushmore. It was all sharp angles and hard lines.

“But when I corrected your assumption that I was shallow and typical by revealing that I lost someone close to me, I think you felt bad about jumping to conclusions and invited me to go shopping to make up for it.”

There was another glance in her direction before he returned his gaze to the road. “In the army I operated on gut instinct and never second-guessed my actions.”

“That was training for combat situations. In the regular world you replay a conversation and sometimes regret responses. It's normal. You asked me to go shopping because you can't take back what you said and are trying to be nice.”

“Are you serious?”

“Completely.” She adjusted her sunglasses. It was a beautiful day in late September and this road to town went around the lake. The surface of the water sparkled like diamonds as the sun sank lower in the cloudless blue sky. “The problem is that your nice muscles haven't been stretched in a while.”

“You know what I think?”

“Not a clue,” she said, wishing she could see his eyes behind those too-sexy-for-words aviator sunglasses. “But I bet you're going to tell me.”

“Damn straight.” He looked over, his mouth pulled into a straight line. “I think you're a fugitive from fantasyland.”

That would be a step up for her after nursing Garrett through cancer and watching him take his last breath. “Oh?”

“I'm not a nice man. If you were smart, you'd ditch this job and get the hell out of here. Away from me.”

“Hmm.”

“What does that mean?”

“You think I'm fragile and I think you're a fraud. So what we have here is a standoff.”

“Guess so,” he said. “Sooner or later one of us is going to blink and it won't be me.”

“Sounds like a challenge or a treaty to me. Maybe both.” It was going to take a lot of convincing to make her believe he was as unfeeling as he wanted her to think he was.

“For the record, it makes good sense to coordinate shopping since you'll be doing the cooking and don't know what Harley likes.”

That made her smile. Big bad warrior was hiding behind the world's most unattractive dog. But she just said, “Understood.”

“You hungry?” The words were unexpected, but they were nearing the Blackwater Lake city limits.

“Starving.”

“Me, too. Let's get something to eat.” He glanced over quickly as if checking to see whether or not she'd noticed him being nice. “Grocery shopping will go easier that way.”

“I think so, too.” And that's the first time they'd agreed on anything in the last twenty-four hours.

He stopped the jeep at a stand-alone building near the end of Main Street, not far from city hall. There was a sign on the outside that read Bar None, with crossed cocktail glasses on it.

“Don't tell me,” she said. “I'm driving you to drink.”

“You said it, not me.” But his teeth flashed in a fleeting smile before he got out of the car.

Erin opened her door and slid to the ground, then met him on the sidewalk. The wooden exterior was reminiscent of a miner's shack and the heavy oak door had a vertical brass handle. Jack grabbed it and pulled the door open for her.

The pulse in her neck jumped as she passed him and walked inside. Heat from his body was enough to sizzle her senses and short them out. That was probably the reason it seemed to take longer than usual for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dim interior after being outside.

“This looks nice,” she finally said.

“It's okay.”

Lining the walls were booths with leather seats and lantern-shaped lights. Dark beams ran the length of the ceiling and old wooden planks covered the floor. An oak bar with a brass footrail commanded the center of the room.

“Table or booth?”

She scanned the bistro tables scattered over the floor. “Where do you usually sit?”

“At the bar.”

She should have guessed and would have if she wasn't standing so close to Jack. Worn jeans, gray hoodie over tight black T-shirt, scuffed boots. This was as much a uniform for him as the camouflage he'd no doubt worn in the military. He'd been so right about what she was thinking yesterday. Not so much about sleeping with him, although she'd gotten as far as wondering what he looked like naked. But she found him incredibly hot and was mortified that he'd been able to see that.

Now she needed to conceal the fact that her instantaneous attraction had not yet run its course, or she'd be risking losing this job.

“The bar it is.” She followed him across the room.

It was closing in on five o'clock and there were only a handful of people in the place. Jack headed for the bar and took a seat on one of the stools beside a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man in a khaki uniform.

“Hey, Sheriff,” he said. “I see you changed your mind about leaving town.”

The man smiled and held out his hand. “Good to see you. Been a while, Jack. If you came around more, you'd know that my dad retired and I'm now the head lawman in town.”

“I've been busy.”

Erin managed to haul herself up on the stool next to him. Her legs were short; the chairs were high. It wasn't graceful. Jack looked at her then at the sheriff, but said nothing.

“Hi,” the man said to her. “Haven't seen you around before.”

She reached an arm in front of Jack and shook the sheriff's hand. “Erin Riley.”

“Will Fletcher,” he said.

A beautiful blue-eyed redhead walked over to them and stopped on the other side of the bar. “If it isn't Blackwater Lake's famous author.”

“Hi, Delanie.”

The woman looked from Jack to Erin and waited expectantly. Apparently she got tired of waiting because she asked, “Who's your friend?”

“Erin Riley.” He rested his forearms on the bar. “And we're not friends.”

“Nice to meet you, Erin.” Delanie stared at Jack. “So, if you're not friends, what are you?”

The silence grew as all of them stared at Jack, waiting for clarification. He finally shrugged and said, “That's a good question.”

Erin jumped in. “I'm his research assistant.”

“Okay, then. What can I get you two?” Delanie asked. “Food? Drinks?”

“I'd like to see a menu, please. And a glass of chardonnay would be lovely.”

“You got it.” The woman grabbed two plastic-covered sheets containing the food choices and set them in front of her and Jack. Then she opened a bottle of white wine and poured a glass, putting it on a napkin in front of Erin. “Beer, Jack?”

“The usual.”

“How long have you been in town?” Sheriff Fletcher asked.

“A day. So far I haven't seen much except the lake and marina. And Main Street. But Blackwater Lake is the most beautiful place I've ever been.”

“Where are you from?” Delanie used a rag to wipe nonexistent spots from the bar.

“Phoenix.” The bar owner and the sheriff were nodding as if that explained a lot. “Don't judge. There's a beauty in the Arizona desert, too, it's just different. I actually haven't done much traveling, though, but I've always wanted to.”

“So, you're a research assistant?” Sitting at the bar, the sheriff leaned his forearms on the edge of the oak. “Is that a permanent arrangement?”

Erin looked at Jack and he didn't seem inclined to answer so she was forced to wing it. “Not permanent. Just for the book in progress. I freelance and in between assignments I work as a substitute high school English teacher.”

“So you're overqualified to read that menu,” Jack said.

She got his point. He was hungry and wanted to get this over with. After scanning the list of options she said, “I'd like a club sandwich and side salad.”

Jack never even looked at the choices. “Burger and fries.”

“Coming right up,” Delanie said, then disappeared in the back.

The sheriff stood and dropped some bills on the bar. “Good to see you, Jack. Don't be a stranger. Welcome, Erin. I hope you enjoy your stay here in Blackwater Lake. It is a pretty place. Take it from me. I left for a lot of years, but couldn't stay away. There are good people here.”

“I look forward to meeting them.”

“What's your hurry, Sheriff?” Jack hadn't been particularly social so the question was unexpected.

“I have paperwork to finish up at the office. Then I'm taking April out to dinner.”

“Is that your wife?” Erin asked.

“Fiancée.” Will Fletcher's rugged features softened when he smiled. “But us getting married is long overdue. We're making plans to rectify that. Can't be soon enough for me.”

“Congratulations,” she said.

“Thanks. Good luck with the book, Jack.”

Erin had a feeling she was the one who needed luck
helping
Jack with the manuscript. His cooperation would be a good place to start. “He seems nice.”

“I suppose.”

“He said people are friendly. Have you met a lot of folks since you've been here?”

“No.”

“Have you made an effort?”

“No.”

“I'm going out on a limb here and say that everyone you've become acquainted with has been a customer here at Bar None.”

There was a challenge in his eyes when he met her gaze. “So?”

“Have you ever heard the saying that ‘no man is an island'? You have to reach out and meet people halfway. On top of that, writing doesn't happen in a vacuum. You have to fill up the creative well. That happens with experiences and to have those, being sociable helps.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” she said.

“And, Erin?”

“Yes?”

“It occurs to me that the armed forces of the United States don't need to stockpile weapons. All the brass needs to do is turn you loose on the enemy to talk them to death.”

She wondered whether or not to be offended by that, then decided one of them needed to be an optimist. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

* * *

The morning after taking her to town, Jack went upstairs to his office, leaving Erin in the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast. She was a good cook. If his editor ever spoke to him again he'd have to thank her for that. The omelet, fruit, toast and coffee was the best morning meal he'd had in a long time. Whatever he threw together was maybe one step above the army's MREs—meals ready to eat.

He turned on his laptop and opened the file “Mac Daniels,” which was the name of his ex-army ranger, Special Forces hero. After reading through the pages he'd written, he said, “This sucks.”

If the pages had been printed out, he'd have wadded them up and tossed the balls of paper across the room. They weren't and he deleted them. Right now he'd take a black ops mission over this. But army rangers never quit and he was literally on borrowed time with this project. After he'd left the military and his wife left him, he'd been pretty sure that being a soldier was the only thing he was good at.

Then he wrote a bestselling novel and the publisher wanted the second book on the two-book contract he'd signed, but he was late turning it in. What if he was a one-hit wonder? Maybe he
was
only good at soldiering. If he had to throw in the towel on this book, that would prove he'd been right.

The sheriff's words from yesterday drifted through his mind.

“Work in progress, my ass,” he mumbled. He didn't need luck as much as inspiration.

There was a knock on the door and since he used the living room of the upstairs apartment for his office, technically the knock was on the office door. If he said nothing, would she go away?

Erin opened it and poked her head in. “Reporting for duty, sir.”

Nine on the dot. It was as if she was punching a time clock. Harley ran inside and settled in his bed next to the desk. Little traitor had been hanging out with her.

Instead of inspiration, what he got was another challenge. “I work alone.”

“Not any more” was what he expected out of her but that's not what she said.

“Let's talk about the book.” She moved in front of the desk.

It was exactly what she'd said yesterday. “I'm a writer, not a talker.”

A look crossed her face that said she'd noticed. “Tell me about the story. This is the sequel to
High Value Target
, so the hero is Mac Daniels.”

He nodded an answer, if only to prove that he was telling the truth about the writer-versus-talker thing.

She tilted her head and shiny, gold-streaked brown hair slid over her shoulder. “I'm curious. When you named this character, did you mean for it to rhyme with Jack Daniel's, the whiskey? An inside joke? Or was it coincidence?”

Sharp girl, he thought. But the only answer he gave her was a small smile.

“Okay then. Moving on.” She settled a hip on the corner of the desk and met his gaze. “I read the first book. Mac was a reluctant hero and took down the bad guys. What is his goal in this book?”