Hero at Large (3 page)

Ken slid his hand along hers and gripped her
wrist. Little prickles of pleasure ran up her arm at  his possessive touch. His hand was large—a working man's hand, she decided. Strong. Permanently tan. It was a hand that could be gentle and protective and still manipulate with confident authority. In a sudden flash of insight Chris knew what it would be like to share a bed with Ken Callahan. A burst of unexpected heat rushed through her at the thought, and a scarlet scald crept from her shirt collar.

Ken regarded her with serious curiosity. “It must have been difficult for you to give up competing.”

Chris smiled. “It was easy. I loved to skate, but I hated to compete. I threw up before every competition. And as soon as I became pregnant my whole body oozed contentment.” She sat forward in her seat, warming to her subject. “Having a baby is a miracle.” Her face glowed with satisfaction and pride. “They have fat little hands and tiny fingernails, and they love you…just because you're there, and you're Mommy. Babies don't care if you're famous or rich.”

She felt his hand tighten on hers and knew she had allowed some of the hurt of rejection to surface. She hadn't meant to show that to him. She hadn't even known herself that it still existed.
She hurried to cover the slip. “My favorite part of the day is when Lucy and I read bedtime stories. The book I like best is about this little bear. He gets a bicycle, and his father is going to teach him how to ride it, but the father does everything wrong! And then there's another Little Bear book where Little Bear and his dad go hiking with the bear scouts—” Chris stopped suddenly and closed her eyes with a groan. “I don't believe I'm telling you about Little Bear.”

His voice was mockingly serious, but his dark eyes danced with amusement. “Little Bear is undoubtedly an important part of your life.”

“Are you laughing at me again?”

He put his hand to her cheek. “No. I think it's very nice.”

A white-coated intern appeared before them. “Mr. Callahan? I have the results of your X-rays. You have a simple fracture. It's not terribly serious, but it'll require a cast. You can go to an orthopedist of your choice, or I can have a staff doctor paged for you. I believe Dr. Wiley is on the floor somewhere.”

“Dr. Wiley will be fine.”

 

A bank of steel-gray clouds hung low in the early-morning sky, diffusing the sunlight and adding a  chill to the air. Ken Callahan brandished his
flourescent green, spanking-new cast, like a flag—holding it high to prevent his arm from swelling.

“Keep it above your heart for a few days,” Dr. Wiley had advised.

“Above my heart,” Ken mumbled, heading for his truck in long, angry strides. “Damned inconvenience.” He stopped and looked down at his plaster-clad arm. The cast stretched from his elbow to the middle of his hand, wrapping around his thumb, and making it impossible to grasp anything with his left hand. He wiggled his fingers pathetically. “Just look at this,” he ranted. “How can I drive? How can I work? How can I tie my damned shoes?”

Chris trotted beside him. She unlocked the doors to the truck and bit her lip to keep from laughing. Ken Callahan had ceased to frighten her. He wasn't as disreputable as she'd originally assumed. He was well-spoken and easy to talk to. A little over-sexed, perhaps, but not weird or dangerous. And she knew from the past two hours that his anger was short-lived. He was not a man that held a grudge or nursed a wound—and the memory of him locking her hand in a death grip while his cast was being applied sent spasms of laughter choking in her throat. Her hilarity ceased when she opened the door and came face-to-snout
with the Rottweiler. There was a tug at Chris's vest collar and warm breath skimmed along her neck.

“I can hardly wait for fourth gear,” Ken murmured into her ear.

“You weren't so crazy about fourth gear when we pulled in here.”

“I was worried about being driven to the police station.”

“And you're not worried anymore?”

“I've decided to take my chances.”

Chris wrinkled her nose at him. “Well you needn't be concerned. It's light out. I can see what I'm doing, now. Your honor is perfectly safe.” He was a nice man, but she was going to be extra careful about first gear. She didn't have the time or desire to complicate her life with a man. She slid behind the wheel and, after Ken was settled, turned to him. “I suppose I should drive you somewhere. Home? Or to work? Where were you going this morning?”

“I was starting a new job. I wanted to get in early and take a look around before anyone else showed up.”

“Oh, no,” she groaned, “first day on the job, and I broke your arm.” She looked at the jeans and scuffed boots. He had removed his sweatshirt in deference to the cast, leaving him in a yellow
short-sleeved T-shirt, which said
CONSTRUCTION WORKERS USE THEIR TOOLS
. The shirt clung to a flat stomach and broad, muscled chest, the sleeves spanning well-defined biceps. His forearm was corded, the back covered with a silk mat of black hair. There was no doubt in Chris' mind that he could crack a walnut as easily as an egg. Her eyes glazed over in silent admiration.

“Earth to Chris.”

“Uh, I was just wondering about your shirt. You do construction work?”

“Yeah.”

Not a laborer, she decided. He didn't seem the sort to take orders. A project manager or a supervisor, maybe. Certainly someone who worked in the field. He didn't get all those muscles sitting behind a desk. “Should I take you to work?”

He looked at the cast. “I think I'll pass on work today.”

“Won't someone be upset if you don't show up?”

“Relieved would probably be a better word.”

The truck idled at a standstill in the parking lot. “That's a strange thing to say. Are you insecure?” she joked.

He shook his head. “No. I'm ruthless.”

An inadvertent shiver ran down her spine at the bitter tone in his voice.

“And I'm disreputable,” he teased, trying to lighten the conversation.

“It's the stubble.”

He rubbed his hand across his whiskered chin. “Twenty-eight of my last forty-eight hours have been spent on a plane. And only three of the remaining twenty hours were spent sleeping. I was afraid to take a razor to my face at four-thirty this morning.”

“Where did you fly in from?”

“Everywhere.”

She felt him slump in the seat next to her. He passed a hand through his hair and sighed. “I've been to three countries and seven cities in the last forty-eight hours. Six job sites. This would have been number seven. Maybe I'm glad you broke my arm. I think I'm running on empty.”

“Are you some sort of troubleshooter?”

“Troubleshooter? I guess that's as good a name as any, but lately I feel more like a trouble
maker.
” He quirked a smile at her. “I'd like to make a pass at you, but all of a sudden, I'm so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“Would you like me to drive you home?”

“I don't think I have a home.” It was a flat statement issued in a voice totally devoid of emotion.
“There's this place out in Loudoun County where I stay sometimes.”

“Loudoun County! After I drop you off, how will I ever get back here? Loudoun County is miles away. There aren't any buses running to Loudoun County, there isn't a subway running to Loudoun County, what are you doing living in Loudoun County?”

He sat with his black curls resting against the rear window, his eyes closed in exhaustion, his cast propped in a ridiculous position on the head of the Rottweiler. “You could spend the night,” he smiled dreamily. “It's lonely in Loudoun County.”

“I'll pass on the night stuff, but I guess I can drive you home. After all, you did try to help me.”

“Mmmmm.”

Chris glanced at her watch. “I have students waiting for me right now. Would you mind hanging around at the skating rink for a couple hours? I'll be done at ten-thirty, and then I can make arrangements with one of the other coaches to follow us out and bring me back home.”

“Mmmmm.”

Chris looked at him suspiciously. “Did you hear anything I said?” There was no response. He was asleep.

Chris dried her skate blades and put the custom Harlicks in her locker. She slipped her feet into her tennis shoes and wondered about the man and dog she'd left slumbering in the parking lot. She'd treated them equally, cracking a window for ventilation and covering them with a blanket from the coaches' lounge. Toward the end of her last lesson she'd had visions of man and beast perishing—like the little match girl—frozen to death under a mantle of dog-induced frost. She pushed through the heavy lobby door and stared horrified into the parking lot. There was no truck. There was no trace of Ken Callahan. No dog.

Bitsy Schoffit barged through the doors behind her. “Okay, I'm ready to go.”

Chris spread her arms in a gesture of confusion. “He isn't here. The truck is gone.”

“I thought he couldn't drive.”

“I dunno. Maybe he called someone to come
and get him while I was on the ice.” She clapped her hand to her forehead. “And he's got my purse. I left it in the truck.”

Bitsy shook her head and made motherly clucking sounds with her tongue. “Dumb, dumb, dumb.”

“It's not so bad. He probably got someone to take him home and didn't realize the purse was on the floor. I'll just go home and call the hospital. Maybe someone there can get in touch with him.”

Bitsy unlocked the door to her BMW, motioned for Chris to get in, and plunked her own small body into the plush red seat. At forty-three she was still slim and graceful on ice, moving effortlessly with her students through difficult choreography. On land she was an ox. On land she stomped and plunked and stumbled with unconscious abandon.

Bitsy turned the BMW onto Little River Turnpike. Half a mile up the road the two women simultaneously spotted Chris' abandoned tan hatchback on the far shoulder. They gave it a cursory glance, as if it belonged to some unknown person, and continued on to the next light.

“Old news,” Chris said finally—her thoughts returning to the car.

Bitsy was familiar with the Chris Nelson philosophy of car care. “Time to buy a new one, huh?”

“Five weeks too early. I have my money tied up in a savings bond that doesn't mature for five more weeks.”

Bitsy gave another series of clucks. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” She pulled into Chris' subdivision and rolled to a stop in front of her house. “Let me guess,” she said, pointing to the blue pickup parked at the curb. “Is this the phantom truck?”

“Oh no! What's he doing here?”

Bitsy chuckled. “I imagine he's in there having tea with Aunt Edna.”

“Just what I need. Edna's convinced I should remarry. Remember poor John Farrell? And last week she arranged a date for me with the guy who came to read our electric meter. Edna'll take one look at Ken Callahan and think she's gone to matchmakers' heaven.”

“Wow. That nice?”

“An eleven, no sweat. And I don't want to have anything to do with him. I like my life just the way it is.” Chris slammed the car door behind her and took twelve feet of sidewalk in two strides. She turned, waved at Bitsy, and hammered on her front door.

Aunt Edna bellowed, “Hold your pants on,” and glared out above a security chain. “Well, good golly,” she complained, “what with all that thun
dering, I thought it had to be some lunatic escaped from Lorton prison. Why didn't you just use your key?”

“It's in my purse, and I don't have my purse with me.” Chris pushed past Edna. “Where is he?”

“You mean that nice Ken Callahan?”

Chris moved from the foyer to the living room, to the dining room. She felt her patience evaporating and clenched her teeth to keep from shouting. “Yes. ‘That nice Ken Callahan.' Where is he?”

Aunt Edna blocked the doorway between living room and dining room. She stood five feet tall in sensible sturdy brown shoes, and her snow-white hair was tightly curled in rows marching obediently across her gleaming pink skull. She had snapping blue eyes—and a body like a fire-plug. “It was just like Goldilocks,” she cried, slapping her leg. “I took Lucy to school, and when I came home there he was—sleeping in your bed.”

Chris felt her voice rise to a shriek. “In my bed?”

“He's such a nice man, dear. And he looked so peaceful, tucked under your big down quilt.”

Her eyes widened in a mixture of outrage and disbelief. “Under my quilt?”

The stairs creaked behind Chris, and she whirled around as Ken sauntered into the room, looking sleepily sexy and perfectly at home.

“I don't know how two tiny women can make so much noise,” he mumbled. “What's all the racket about?”

“
You!
How did you get in here? And what were you doing in my bed?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and grinned. Evidently remembering his cast, he diligently raised it above his heart. “Dog and I just about froze to death in the truck. I was going to come inside the skating rink to get warm, but I was afraid I looked too disreputable, so I fished around in your purse until I found your address and your keys, and then I drove myself over here.”

“I thought you couldn't drive.”

“Well, I discovered I could just about wrap my fingers around the wheel.” He waved his cast at her and wiggled his fingers. “And lucky it was my left arm that you broke, because I can shift with my good hand.”

“And then you just let yourself in and went to bed?” she sputtered.

“There wasn't anyone home. I put Dog in your backyard and went upstairs.”

“It was just like Goldilocks,” Aunt Edna insisted. “I went upstairs and there he was, sleeping just as peaceful as could be.”

“Until Edna started screaming.” He raised an eyebrow at Edna. “You've got some voice.”

Edna sniffed indignantly. “Well, what do you think? You think I'm some frail old lady? And if you hadn't come up with a good explanation I'd  have cracked your skull wide open with my wooden rolling pin.”

Chris smiled and looked sidewise at Ken. “Don't doubt it for a minute,” she whispered.

“You're obviously closely related.”

“Aunt Edna is my mother's sister and reigning family matriarch.”

“Seventy-five years old, and I'm almost as good as new,” she said proudly. “Now you young folks go into the parlor, and I'll get us some refreshments.”

“That won't be necessary, Aunt Edna. I'm sure Mr. Callahan will be anxious to be on his way.”

Aunt Edna's mouth closed with a determined snap. “I won't hear of it. Anyone can see the man is hungry, and he don't look like he's in such a hurry to leave.”

Ken beamed. “I'd like to stay for refreshments.”

“You see?” Edna gloated. “I knew he didn't want to rush off.” She smacked her lips with satisfaction and bustled off to the kitchen.

Ken smiled. “I like your aunt.”

Chris glanced up at him. “When my marriage collapsed it was Aunt Edna that put the pieces back together. Her own husband died eleven years ago. When I was in my eighth month, Aunt Edna arrived unannounced and informed me that I needed looking after. I was the only one in my Lamaze class with a sixty-seven-year-old lady for a coach.” Chris shook her head, still amazed at the memory. “She went right through delivery with me. She was wonderful.”

“And she's lived with you ever since?”

“Off and on. She travels from family member to family member. Mostly wherever there's a disaster. Lately I've tried to keep her here because of Lucy. In order for me to make enough money to support us it's necessary for me to give after-school and evening lessons. If it weren't for Aunt Edna, I'd have to put Lucy in day care and hire babysitters at night.”

Ken relaxed onto the couch and patted the spot next to him. “Come sit by me.” The sounds of banging cupboards and clanking dishes drifted in from the kitchen. Ken looked in the direction of the clatter. His mouth twitched and finally gave way to a full-fledged grin.

“What's so funny?”

“I just thought of something your aunt said to me.” He threw his head back and laughed.

Chris marveled at the quality of his laughter. It was full and rich and deeply masculine and impossible to ignore. She smiled and prodded him. “Well? What did she say?”

“When she walked in and found me asleep in  your bed, she let out with this ear-splitting screech—it had me sitting bolt upright before I even  opened my eyes. But then she took a good look at me. I guess she sized me up and figured I was okay, because her first words were…‘Merciful heavens, there's finally a man in my niece's bed.'”

“I'll kill her.”

“I get the impression that your aunt would like to see you married.”

“That's the understatement of the century. She's fixed me up with meter readers, shoe salesmen, a fat fifty-two-year-old butcher, and last week she scared the bejeebers out of John Farrell.”

“Who's John Farrell?”

“My accountant.” Chris waved her hand in a dismissing gesture. “As soon as Aunt Edna found out John was single she did everything but produce my dental records and promise a dowry. I love Aunt Edna, but she's entirely guileless, and
she gets more outspoken as she gets older. She says she hasn't got much time left, so she's not going to spend it pussyfooting around.”

“Edna ever find John Farrell in your bed?”

“No!” Chris rolled her eyes at the thought. She couldn't imagine pleasant, innocuous John Farrell in her bed. She took a stealthy breath and reluctantly admitted to herself that she could easily imagine Ken Callahan there.

Edna trotted in with a plate of cookies. “Are you talking about that John Farrell?” She narrowed her eyes at Ken. “What a wimp. Had him over to dinner and he picked at his roast beef. Didn't eat his peas at all.” She shook her head in dismay. “That man had no spirit. No backbone.” She winked at Ken and smiled broadly at Chris. “Now this one here is more like it. This guy's got something to him.”

Chris sighed and selected a cookie. Once Aunt Edna got started there was no stopping her. Might as well sit back and watch him squirm, she thought, taking a perverse delight in the possibility that Ken and Edna deserved each other. After all, it wasn't as if she had any future plans for Ken Callahan. She wouldn't ever see him again—might as well let Aunt Edna have some fun with him.

“Are you married?” Edna asked.

“Nope.”

Edna looked appalled. “A big, strapping man like you—not married? And you're not getting any younger. How old are you?”

“Thirty-six.”

Edna took an Oreo. She broke it in half and nibbled the white icing off one of the wafers. “You're not one of those men that prefers boys, are you?”

Ken choked on his Ovaltine. “No ma'am! I'm…uh…old-fashioned about that kind of stuff.”

Chris covered her mouth to keep from laughing. This promised to be even better than the demolition of John Farrell.

Edna leaned forward in eager anticipation. “You got a steady job?”

Ken turned to Chris; his eyes danced with diabolical delight. The silent message was blatant: Feed me to the wolves, will you? When he turned back to Edna his face was a solemn mask. “I was supposed to start a new job today, but as you can see…” He waved his arm pathetically in front of him. “I've got a broken arm. I can't work with this cast on.”

Edna sucked in her breath. “And all because you stopped to help my niece. Isn't that noble? Don't that beat all?”

Chris pressed herself deeper into the sofa cushions and surreptitiously made a motion that said she might gag. “Noble,” she croaked.

Ken stole a smug look in Chris' direction. He toyed with a vanilla wafer.

“What a pity,” Edna went on. “How will you get by?”

“I have some savings.”

“A man with a savings account. Now that's character,” she told her niece. “Seems a shame to have to dip into your savings on account of us. I feel just terrible about this.”

A knot was developing in Chris' stomach. This wasn't taking the usual course. By this time Aunt Edna should have had him in a sweat, but Ken was looking more pleased by the minute. And he was planning something sneaky—Chris was sure of it.

Ken stretched and relaxed deeper into the couch. “This is a nice room.”

Chris blinked at the sudden change in conversation. There was none of the earlier affectation. He seemed genuinely impressed.
I don't trust him,
she thought. He'd been leading up to something. She sat up warily and paid close attention, watching his eyes as they observed the room.

It was an airy room with ivory walls and
matching sheers. The plush wall-to-wall carpeting was a warm beige tone. The few pieces of furniture were comfortably overstuffed and covered in earth-tone tans with the exception of a cocoa-and-white houndstooth check wingback chair. The subdued colors provided the perfect background for gregarious Boston ferns, delicate asparagus ferns, potted fig trees, basketed orange trees, hanging ivies, and a colorful collection of African violets in traditional clay pots. The plants seemed to begin in the living room, randomly sprinkled here and there, picking up momentum and becoming more dense as they progressed toward the dining room, where they converged around the patio doors.

Ken's attention focused on a cluster of photographs hanging on the wall. “Do you mind if I look at the pictures in your dining room?”

Aunt Edna jumped to her feet. “You want to see the pictures?”

Chris groaned. This was not a good sign.

“This here's a photograph of some sailing ships. Chris got this when we went vacationing in Maine last year. And this here's a picture of me when I was a little girl. Wasn't I a pip? Just look at those ribbed stockings. This is an elephant at the zoo, and this is a picture Lucy drew when we came home.”

Ken looked at the crayon drawing of a smiling elephant. It had been framed and matted with the same professional care as all the other pictures. He tilted his head in Chris' direction. “Your daughter must feel very special to have her drawing on this wall.”