Almost Perfect (15 page)

“You're right, I don't understand. Why should we let a kid decide what's best for her? They don't, usually.”

“How do you know?” She cruised out of the kitchen
and down the hall in search of a suitable shirt. When she'd left her ex, she'd taken his entire wardrobe of shirts with her, figuring he didn't own anything else, and he owed her. She was ambivalent about Jared McCloud wearing one.

He followed right on her heels, drat the man.

“That's what I was always told while growing up, that I didn't know anything and adults had more experience. Makes sense to me.”

“Yeah, some adults have more experience. You don't. Go back to Never Never Land and take my word for it on this one.” She reached in the closet, grabbed a gray rayon, and shoved it at him. Having Jared McCloud in her bedroom did not sit well on her already disturbed psyche. She didn't look at him as he took the shirt.

“You think I'm some kind of Peter Pan?” Insulted, he shrugged on her offering.

Just her luck, the shoulders of the shirt were too narrow, and she had to admire the way it stretched snugly across his upper body. Well, David had been younger when he'd worn that. So had she.

The back door slammed, and she forgot the argument. “That's Kismet. I'm fixing popcorn. Say one thing to scare her, and I'll have your hide.”

Jared shoved his hand through his hair and watched her walk away from him—again. One of these days, he'd figure what made her tick. For now, he had to figure out how to confront a child who had just been molested.

He was way out of his league and ought to be running as fast as his feet could carry him.

Cleo's perspective forced him to stay and reexamine his methods. He'd thought handing out money would help the kids, but he'd only clipped the tip of the iceberg. Maybe money was just another form of shallow. Damn.

He didn't have to hang around where he wasn't wanted, Jared told himself as he avoided the kitchen and Kismet, under Cleo's orders. He had Hollywood and success at his fingertips. His name would be in lights so high his family and old school critics would have to slink away with their tails between their legs or recognize his genius.

Provided he could ever draw again.

Fighting that irritating worm gnawing at his guts, Jared leaned against the door frame between the kitchen and front room, watching Cleo popping popcorn for the fey child curled in the kitchen window seat, ignoring his presence. He ought to leave. He needed to get back to work if he ever hoped to achieve success. Or at least meet his deadline.

He swung away from the family scene, planning on getting the hell out of a place where he so obviously didn't belong, when his glance fell on the sketchpad on the sofa. Kismet was always sketching in that thing. He might not belong anywhere, but drawing was something he understood. Heaven only knew, he'd spent half his teenage years with pencil in hand, or at a computer keyboard playing with graphics programs, probably because drawing was the only thing that got him noticed.

Fine. Let Cleo ignore him. He knew how to handle that.

Dropping down on the wide, comfortable sofa, Jared flipped open the sketchbook. A fire-breathing dragon practically flew off the page.

Okay, dragons were common stuff, although the angle on this one was close to brilliant. She'd probably have a white knight on the next page. Symbolic, after all.

Pumpkins, coaches—she ought to do well at Disney. Nice, relaxed hand, a little instruction needed in perspective—

An entire page crayoned in black with only a pinpoint of color in a corner. Not in the center, but almost cringing in the corner. He held the page closer to better discern the figure, but it looked like a worm or caterpillar. He couldn't grasp the significance.

He flipped another page. An upright fire-breathing dragon with rather distinctive genitalia threatened the cringing worm. Jared squirmed beneath the power of the vision. He could almost feel the dragon's breath on his neck and could crawl into the worm's skin. He didn't need a degree in psychology to read this one.

Almost afraid to turn the page again, Jared lifted his head and listened to Cleo's voice in the kitchen. She spoke in a sane, sensible tone, reassuring the child with pleasantries, food, and attention. How many women knew how to do that? The ones he knew would be hysterical, frantic, phoning the police, and screaming helplessly had they come upon the situation he'd presented to Cleo. He'd seen her panic, then quell her distress and set about finding Kismet in a rational manner. It gave him cause to wonder about Cleo's background.

Had Cleo been molested as a child? Is that why she reacted as she did?

The thought made him feel dirty inside. He knew nothing about the woman, but he'd been salivating over her like a randy teenager. No wonder she'd hit him.

After this episode, he'd have to quit looking at women as ripe oranges begging to be squeezed.

All right, so he'd spent the better part of his lifetime wrapped in his own cocoon, without any thought to others. He could learn to look around him. Cleo was a damned rough place to start, but he thought she might be worth the effort.

Either that, or she was a better distraction than the script he couldn't finish. His shallowness knew no depths.

Okay, bad joke.

Taking a breath, Jared flipped to the next page of Kismet's sketchbook. To his startlement, Cleo jumped out at him, but it wasn't through any face she'd ever presented to him. He studied the drawing, trying to see how Kismet had done what she'd done.

It was Cleo as a hawk, or possibly a phoenix, since fire danced about her feet as she spread broad wings and protected the worm from the encroaching dragon. He didn't know how he knew it was Cleo. The eyes, maybe? The attitude? The hawk certainly had plenty of attitude. Only a teenager could imagine a pose like that. The hawk ought to be wearing a backward baseball cap and baggy pants. So maybe it wasn't all Cleo, but some brash combination of people that Kismet admired. But Cleo was definitely part of the saving grace in this scenario.

He was afraid to look further. Kismet's pen wielded passionate skill, whereas his teenage years had drawn on cynical wit. If he wasn't mistaken, she drew from a well of despair and anguish he'd never tapped. Teenagers had thin skin. He remembered that part of adolescence entirely too well. What must it be like not only to be scorned by one's peers, but mistreated by the adults who were supposed to protect you? Maybe his parents had been absentmindedly negligent, but they'd never caused harm.

He had to talk to Cleo.

Carefully closing the book, Jared stood and roamed restlessly about the room. He ought to leave and come back after Kismet was settled. He didn't know anything about kids, girls especially. He'd only scare her.

He didn't belong in this situation any way he looked at it. He was the outsider here. He couldn't do anything to help.

Clenching his fingers into fists, he ached to cream the bastard who'd touched her.

He glanced out the big windows and watched as a pair of blue-jean-clad legs approached. Fine view Cleo had here. Was that how she'd watched him walk up that first day? Legs first?

Gene climbed the porch steps and, whistling, merrily flung open the front door as if he belonged here. Well, they'd said Cleo left the place open for them. Now he understood why.

Gene looked surprised and a little wary at finding Jared here, but he produced his cool-dude smile and improvised. “You camping out here, too? You and Cleo got a thing goin' on?”

He ought to pin the little turd against the wall for disrespect, but it was obvious these kids hadn't grown up in his world, and wouldn't know the meaning of respect. He'd have to teach them.

He was out of his ever-lovin' mind. Shrugging, Jared shoved his hands in his pockets. “I like Cleo, and I won't insult her with that kind of talk. She has class.”

Gene looked disbelieving, but Jared couldn't tell if he doubted him or Cleo. Then the boy nodded and jerked his head diffidently at the front door. “Want to see what I taught Porky to do?”

Why was he doing this? He needed to get back to
work. He didn't need to see what tricks a potbellied pig could do.

He followed Gene out to his zoo.

Sitting on her back porch as the sun sank behind the pines, Cleo watched Jared climbing up the path from the beach. He'd kept Gene occupied for the evening while she tried talking with Kismet. She hadn't had much success, but at least the kids were squirreled away in the bunk beds in Matty's room for the night, safe and well fed. She could count that as some form of success, she supposed.

She didn't know where Jared had gone after Gene came in to eat. In the twilight, she couldn't tell how badly the bruise had spread across his cheek, but she could see a definite discoloration. He'd cleaned up and put on one of his own shirts, so that must be hers he was carrying over his arm. If he was just returning the shirt, she might handle it. Anything more, and she was likely to curl up in a ball and cry until her heart wore out.

She'd thought running up to Columbia and meeting Matty and Maya at the zoo might take her mind off things, but it had only weakened every resolve she'd ever made. Matty had been thrilled to see her and had danced around and chattered incessantly the whole time. She'd felt loved and wonderful and wished she could take him home right then.

Then he'd happily run into Maya's house with his cousins at the end of the day as if she didn't exist at all.

Kids were versatile, she told herself. He'd love it here, too, once he moved back. She didn't dare believe anything else.

Gene and Kismet didn't exactly make likely playmates.

“Hi.” Jared dropped onto the step below her without asking permission.

“Did no one ever teach you the rules of civilized behavior?” she asked with more curiosity than acidity. She was too wiped to be sarcastic.

“Nope. My father always had his nose in a book, and my mother always had her nose in someone else's business. I went by unnoticed,” he said with disarming charm, handing her the shirt. “What rule have I fractured?”

“Normal people wait for an invitation before making themselves at home.” She folded the shirt on her lap, and crossing her arms over her knees, returned to staring at the trees. He was all sexy-smelling male and ought to make her nervous, but apparently she was too tired even for that. Somehow, she almost felt comfortable with him sitting below her.

“Way I see it, I'd never be invited anywhere at that rate. It's easier to drop in and make people laugh until they let me stay.”

“So, make me laugh.” Wondering how anyone as good-looking and famous as Jared McCloud could feel unwanted anywhere, Cleo refused to fall for his charm. Men like him could make themselves comfortable anywhere they went.

“I'm fresh out of laughs,” he said in a disgruntled tone, stretching his legs across the sandy walkway. “You'll just have to take me as I am.”

“A guardian angel for fifteen-year-old girls? Okay.” She owed him for that. He looked more like a sulky boy than a dangerous man right now, so she saw no need to fear him. And she was too wrung out to respond to her rampant hormones. She simply wouldn't look at him.

She'd probably spend the whole damned night dreaming about him.

He wrapped his hand around her bare ankle and stroked it without any apparent thought. Energizing
heat instantly flowed through her, striking a place better ignored. Cleo tried to wriggle her foot free.

He caught her ankle firmly. “I won't remove your foot, I promise. I just can't talk unless I'm touching, all right?”

She settled down and contemplated means of scalping that beautiful head of thick hair. “You'd better have something good to say.”

“Wish I did.” Tensely, he stroked her ankle, and at her irritated attempt to retrieve it, he glanced at her. “Did I mention I'm usually good at distractions? I lack focus.”

He said that in such an aggrieved manner, Cleo figured he'd been told that by his browbeating family a few times as well. She almost chuckled. “You must be a trial and a nuisance,” she agreed.

“I am.” He fell silent a minute longer while he rubbed her. “Hell, I'm no good at this. It's not any of my business, I know, but what are you going to do about Kismet?”

She'd kind of figured that was what this was about. She shifted her trapped foot sideways, but he wouldn't budge, just ran his hand higher up her calf. How did he expect her to think when he touched her like that? “She's inside, safe and sound. Just butt out. It's none of your concern.”

“I looked at her sketchpad.”

Cleo caught her breath. She'd never dared invade Kismet's privacy by prying, but Jared had strange ideas of personal space. She waited.

He shot her a wry glance when she didn't speak. “No curiosity? Or is that disapproving silence I hear?”

“Along with all your other faults, you're an annoying bastard; you know that, don't you?” Too bad her voice lacked conviction.

He chuckled, and in the warm September night, it sounded healthy, familiar, and somehow reassuring. Cleo couldn't remember the last time she'd spent more than a
few minutes talking with a man. With anyone. People usually backed off at her prickly attitude. She liked it that Jared got beyond her surface.