How to Score (7 page)

As he followed Sammi and her dog onto a tree-shaded street fifteen minutes later, Chase was breathing hard—as much from watching Sammi as from the run. His initial theory that she was out of shape had been off base—way off base. The sight of her long legs, pert backside, and slender waist would have made him break a sweat even if he’d been sitting still.

She slowed in front of a small white stucco house. “Here it is.”

“Cool place,” Chase said, and meant it. The tiny, flat-roofed house had a curved corner built from square glass blocks, giving it a George Jetson kind of look.

He followed her and the dog up the stoop to the front door. She reached inside her T-shirt and fished a key off a chain around her neck. “It was designed by a famous art deco architect,” she said, unlocking it. “He only built a few modest-sized homes, and this is the only one still standing.”

And I shouldn’t be here seeing it,
Chase thought, but he’d been unable to resist the invitation. After all, the inside of a home gave real clues to the person who lived there.

She opened the door. “Come on in.”

It was like stepping into a tiny time warp. A green-and-black tile fireplace with a gilt starburst mirror over the mantel dominated one wall. A kidney-shaped coffee table stood between a fan-backed green sofa and two low-slung black chairs with green and black geometric-patterned throw pillows. “Wow. This looks like the set of an old Bogey and Bacall movie.”

She smiled broadly and flipped a light switch, lighting up an overhead fixture that looked like two swans holding a bowl. “Thanks. That’s kind of the effect I was going for.”

“You’re an old movie buff?”

“I’m an art deco buff, but lots of movies from the thirties and forties featured the style.”

He needed to play this as if he didn’t know anything about her, other than what she’d told the police officer. “Oh, that’s right. You work at the art deco museum.” He looked around. “So this is art deco. I never really knew what it was.”

“It has a lot of different interpretations, but it was basically the modern of its day.”

“When was that?”

“Generally speaking, between the world wars. Tulsa has a ton of it because it was popular when most of the city was built.”

“This place is in great condition for a house that old.”

“Thanks. I’ve done a lot of work on the place. I’ve replastered, painted, retiled the fireplace, refinished the floors, and installed vintage light fixtures.”

That was an awful lot of work and money to put into a rental. Only he wasn’t supposed to know she was just renting. He wondered if she’d lie about it. “How long have you had this place?” He followed her into the kitchen, trying to keep his thoughts focused on the conversation and off her long legs.

“A little over six months, but I don’t own it.” The thought seemed to deflate her. “I’m trying to buy it, but it needs a lot of repairs, and I can’t get a mortgage until they’re fixed. Unfortunately, my landlord won’t shell out the money to do them. And he informed me last night that he plans to sell it as-is, which most likely means he’ll sell it to someone who wants to tear it down.”

Chase leaned a hip against her turquoise-and-black tile counter. “He has to keep the place in good repair as long as you have a lease.”

“That’s another problem. I don’t have one.” She picked up the coffeepot and carried it to the tiny sink. “It ran out, and now I’m just a month-to-month tenant.”

Not a very logical situation to be in—especially considering all she’d spent on the place. But from what he’d learned as her life coach, she wasn’t a very practical person.

She turned on the faucet and filled the pot with water, then poured it into her Mr. Coffee. “I’m hoping that when the executive curator at the museum retires and I officially replace her, my salary will increase enough for me to qualify for a larger loan. Maybe then the bank will let me buy the place as-is.”

“When’s she going to retire?”

“Who knows? It was supposed to have happened months ago, but she changed her mind. I was hired as interim head curator with the understanding that my salary would go up when she stepped down, but I’m still waiting.”

“So you’re stuck as her understudy for as long as she wants?”

“Pretty much.” Sammi opened an ancient turquoise refrigerator and pulled out a can of Cain’s coffee. “She worked for Phelps Oil before the museum was even created, and all Phelps employees hired before 1970 have a guaranteed job for as long as they want one.”

“Maybe she could be transferred to a different position.”

“Oh, I don’t want to push her out.” She pried the yellow lid off the red can. The rich scent of coffee filled the air. “Her job has been her whole life, and I want her to leave on her own terms.”

Sammi was too nice for her own good, lacking in drive, or missing the self-preservation instinct—and none of these possibilities boded well for her career prospects. “What if she decides to stay for several more years?”

“I refuse to think along those lines.” She filled the coffee filter. “The head curator position is my dream job, and I have faith it will all work out when it’s meant to.”

Things worked out for people who made them work out, not for people who sat back and hoped for the best. In addition to being illogical, impractical, and irrational, Sammi was a Pollyanna. No wonder her life was a mess.

She punched the “on” button on the coffeepot and turned toward him. When her eyes met his, he felt as if she’d found his on button, as well. Since when did impractical Pollyannas have so much appeal?

The dog tipped up his snout and snuffled the countertop. Chase patted his enormous head.

“What about you?” Sammi asked. “Is the FBI your dream job?”

“I wouldn’t exactly describe it as dreamy, but yeah, it’s all I ever wanted to do.”

She leaned a shapely hip against the counter. “What, exactly, does a special agent do?”

“Investigate federal crimes, search for fugitives, help out local law enforcement when they need it—whatever needs doing.”

“Do you have a specialty?”

“I work a lot of organized-crime cases.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean the Cosa Nostra?”

He shook his head. “Mainly the Russian mob or the Calabrian Mafia.”

“I’ve never heard of the Calabrian thing.”

“It’s a group of much smaller, less organized crime families from another part of Italy.”

Sammi’s hazel eyes regarded him with rapt attention. “What sorts of things do they do?”

“Typical, everyday family activities—racketeering, heroin trafficking, murder.”

Her eyes widened. “Yikes. My parents just took us to the park.”

Chase grinned, then caught himself. What was he doing, running off at the mouth about his work? He was here to find out about her.

He looked around, and his gaze lit on a collection of photos on a narrow sideboard in the breakfast nook. He moved toward it and picked up a photo of a smiling couple. “Are these your parents?”

“Yes.”

“Do they live around here?”

She shook her head. “My mom is traveling with a children’s theater troupe, and my dad died about ten years ago.”

“Sorry about your dad. Why was he in the wheel-chair?”

“He was a policeman. He was shot in the line of duty.”

“Oh, wow. That’s rough.”

“Yeah.” A shadow passed over her eyes. “Another cop accidentally shot him during a scuffle with an armed-robbery suspect.”

Chase winced. Injuring a fellow officer was every officer’s worst nightmare.

“Did that happen in Tulsa?”

She shook her head. “We lived in Dallas. But I’ve always wanted to move to Tulsa. My grandparents lived here and we visited a lot.” She picked up a photo of a smiling elderly couple on a porch swing and handed it to him. “Their house was my favorite place in the world.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She nodded, her eyes taking on a soft fondness. “Just walking through their door made you feel good. Their house always smelled like baking bread or cookies or pot roast, and someone was always laughing. I think it was such a happy place because it was so filled with love.” She blew out a wistful sigh. “They were married more than fifty years, and they still acted like newlyweds. They adored each other. In fact, my grandmother died six months after Gramps passed away. The doctor said she died of a broken heart.”

Chase had heard of couples like that but had never seen one at close range.

He picked up the next photo, which showed a shorter, younger-looking brunette standing beside Sammi in a graduation gown. “Who’s this?”

Sammi stepped beside him, so close he could smell the fruity scent of her hair. “My sister, Chloe. She lives across town. She looks a lot different now that her hair is dyed blue.”

Chase’s eyebrows rose. “What does she do?”

“She’s a starving artist, complete with garret.”

“I wasn’t aware Tulsa had any garrets.”

Sammi’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “Leave it to Chloe to find one. But then, Chloe has special talents like that.”

Sammi slid into one of the chairs at the small breakfast nook. “So tell me about your family.”

He sank into the chair across the old table. Man, he hated questions about his family. “There’s not much to tell. I have a younger brother, and that’s it.”

“What does he do?”

The last thing he wanted to talk to Sammi about was his brother. Better to just keep his background vague, avoid mentioning his name, and move this conversation to another subject, pronto. “He’s, uh, into consulting.” He shifted his weight and shifted the topic. “So—do you run every morning?”

“Usually every evening. I’m not much of a morning person. I was out this morning because my life coach suggested it.”

She was up-front about things, he had to give her that. Unfortunately, he couldn’t return the favor. He furrowed his brow and feigned confusion. “Your what?”

“Life coach. It’s like a counselor or a therapist, only more hands-on.”

His glance slid over her.
Man, I’d like to be more hands-on.
Annoyed at himself for the wayward thought, he forced himself to look away.

She tipped her head and regarded him. “You know, you sound kind of like him.”

Uh-oh. She was way too observant. “Lots of people tell me I sound like someone they know. The FBI trains us to sound like Joe Average, and I guess it works.” He’d have to remember to talk at a higher pitch next time he spoke to her on the phone. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the table. “How does this coach thing work?”

“He gives me assignments, kind of like a coach gives athletes exercises. He’s trying to help me build skills to deal with my problem areas.”

“Which are?”

“My job, my situation with my landlord, and my social life.”

“What’s up with your social life?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem.” She grinned and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “What about yours? What do you do when you’re not chasing Mafia types or jogging?”

Other than impersonate my brother?
“I love to be outdoors. I have a little piece of land in the Ouachita Mountains, and I go there whenever I can.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that’s beautiful.” She rose and moved to the coffeepot as it gurgled out the last drops. “Isn’t there some kind of scenic highway up there?”

“Yeah.” He stood, as well, and moved back to the counter. “The Talimena Skyline Drive.”

“Sounds terrific. The closest I ever get to nature is my backyard or Riverside Park. I’d love to try roughing it sometime.”

I’d love to take you.
The words were on the tip of his tongue. What the heck was he doing? He couldn’t see her if he were coaching her. He shouldn’t even be here now.

She pulled a sugar bowl out of the cabinet, then turned toward him. “Are you going up there this weekend?”

Why was she asking? Was she angling for an invitation? The idea had a dangerous amount of appeal. He shook his head. “Afraid not. I promised my partner I’d help out at his dad’s booth at an auto swap meet. He and his dad are vintage car buffs, and they sell old parts.”

“Oh.” She glanced up, her eyes wide. “I didn’t realize you have a… partner.”

The odd way she said the word jolted him. Oh, hell—she thought he meant life partner! “My FBI partner,” Chase said quickly. “I don’t have the, uh, other kind.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks turned pink. She turned away and pulled two spoons out of a drawer. “Not that I thought… I mean, not that you can always tell, but until you said that, I didn’t think that you were… I mean, I don’t want
you
to think that
I
thought that you were… ” She turned back around. The pink was spreading down her neck. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But you didn’t strike me that way when you were lying on top of me.” Her blush now reached the tips of her ears. “That didn’t come out right, either. I mean, when we fell, I felt a certain chemistry… ” Her face and neck were now completely crimson. “Not chemistry. That’s the wrong word. More of a vibe. I mean, I just got the sense that you were… that you were very… ”

Interested? Attracted? Aroused?
“Straight?” he supplied.

She nodded.

“Good read.” God, but the girl could blush. They should name a paint color after the shade of her face: Mortification Scarlet. He grinned at her. “I picked up the same vibe about you.”

“Um… yeah.” Her face was the color of a third-degree burn.

He grinned as she turned to the cabinet and stood on tiptoe, reaching toward a shelf of coffee mugs. Her shorts rode up, exposing the curve of two round cheeks. Oh, yeah. There was chemistry, all right. And it was making the room suddenly very warm.

She pulled down two mugs. One said, “Don’t make me get the flying monkeys,” and the other said, “Cowabunga, dude.” She handed him the Cowabunga cup and poured coffee in it as the dog ambled past. She overfilled it, sloshing coffee on his fingers. He jerked back, only to find the dog behind him. The dog barked, and Chase lurched forward, causing more coffee to slosh out of the cup onto his wrist. Sammi reached out to take his mug and spilled still more hot coffee—this time straight from the pot—onto his shorts.

“Ow!”