Knocking at Her Heart (Conover Circle #1) (9 page)

He’d only agreed to participate
because the homeless shelter was one of the charities supported by the event. His
mom, his sisters, and he had spent one long winter in a very similar place in
Chicago.

He figured he could tolerate most
anything for an evening if it meant that more children would have warm beds and
food in their bellies. Now that a night with either a grabby Chantel Anderson
or a recently-hurt Mrs. Sinclair loomed, he wasn’t so sure. 

He wouldn’t have to worry about
Maddie entering into the bidding. Immediately after he’d mentioned his
participation in the event, she’d given him the same look she’d first given him
the night he’d stitched up her hand—like she was about to vomit.

Hell. What did he
care?   

“Hey.” Tom snapped his fingers in
front of Sam’s face. 

“What?” Sam stuffed the message
slips into his pocket. He’d return calls from home.

“You were a million miles away,”
Tom accused.

No. Just a couple hundred yards.
He didn’t want Tom to know that. If the man had any idea that Sam spent even
one idle moment thinking about Maddie, he’d never let him live it down. 
He needed to redirect. Quickly. “Maybe Chantel will bid on you. She probably
just doesn’t realize you’re on the block as well.”

Tom Holt, who always had a
smart-ass remark and a knowing look, rolled his eyes and Sam, for the first
time ever, thought he saw a glimpse of unease. Tom had divorced his wife at
least ten years before. Prowling was second nature to him. What was going on?

“You are participating?” Sam
prodded.

“I am.” Tom looked somewhere over
Sam’s shoulder. “Let’s just put it this way. Chantel wants her boat floated, and
my sail isn’t rigged quite right.”

Sam frowned at his friend. “What
do you mean?”

Tom ran his tongue over his
teeth. “What I mean is that I can’t keep
it
stiff enough, long enough,
to catch a good breeze.”

Oh boy. Sam rubbed his chin.
“Have you seen anybody about your sail?”

Tom shook his head. “I know all
the boat repair people. I’m not really all that comfortable talking to them
about, uh, equipment failure.”

They were having a ridiculous
conversation. “You need to see somebody,” Sam said. 

“I know. I will. I’m only
fifty-four years old. It’s probably just stress.”

Sam did the math in his head. He
was thirty-six. Did that really mean that he had less than eighteen more good
years in him?  He felt hot and cold and sort of weak. Was time running
out?  He needed air. “You want to go have a beer?” he asked. “Maybe some
cheese fries?”

“Someplace smoky where they don’t
bother to wipe the tables?” Tom replied.

“With sassy waitresses and big
screen televisions.”

“I’ll get my car,” Tom said, his
face lighting up once
again.            

**

Maddie hadn’t known the bowling
alley served dinner. Now that she’d eaten there, she still wasn’t sure. She’d
had a deep-fried breaded chicken sandwich, deep-fried breaded mushrooms, and a
cherry-flavored soft drink.

Healthy eaters were praying and
making the sign of the cross on her behalf.

Now, as she watched her mother
and Carol’s husband, Travis, walk toward the bowling lanes, she couldn’t decide
if the gurgling in her stomach was grease or nerves.

“This is fun, isn’t it?” Carol
asked, tapping her fingers on the scarred veneer-topped wood table.

Maddie sighed, but knew
immediately that the woman couldn’t hear her. Music blared from the bar that
was strategically placed on one side of the small dining area, and balls rolled
and pins dropped on the other side. It was like being in the middle of an
acoustical war zone.

Maddie leaned across the table
and got close to her friend’s ear. “I can’t believe you invited my mother
here.”

“Not my fault. She overheard me and
Travis talking and wanted to know where we were going. I never thought she’d
want to come along. She doesn’t look like a bowler.”

Her mother, the woman that had
raised her, would have never set foot in the place. The red-haired
condom-buying woman, who had somehow taken over her mother’s body, had jumped
at the chance. 

And her father still hadn’t
called. She’d left three messages on his cell phone. She’d called his office
once and his secretary had confirmed that he was working and teaching. If he
didn’t call tomorrow, Maddie figured she might have to hop a plane to D.C. and
drag him back to Wisconsin by the ear. Before her mother did something really
stupid like get her nose pierced or maybe get a nice eagle tattooed across her
chest.

They still hadn’t discussed the
condoms. Maddie had a thousand questions, but there’d been no time. After her
mother had threatened to bid on Sam, she’d taken her condoms and her new
clothes upstairs, leaving Carol, Sam and Maddie all slack-jawed. Carol had
recovered first and started lunch. Sam, looking pretty pale, had bundled kids
up into spring jackets and taken them outside, and she’d sat in the big chair
and read books to three adoring four-year-olds.   

She’d planned on having a
heart-to-heart with her mother tonight, but the woman had thrown her a curve
when she’d insisted upon joining Carol and her husband at their weekly bowling
league. Maddie knew her mother had never, ever, been inside a bowling alley.
Now the woman, wearing two hundred-dollar silk pants and a cashmere sweater was
sticking her manicured fingers into holes, trying balls on for size.

The earth was spinning out of
control.

“I wish you could bowl with us,”
her mother said, as she and Travis returned to the table.

“Oh, that would be fun,” Maddie
said, very grateful that she’d had surgery. She looked at the box in her
mother’s hand. “What’s in there?”

“Bowling shoes. They didn’t want
to sell a new pair to me at first.”

“I tried to tell her that they’d
rent her a pair for two bucks,” Travis said.

Her mother visibly shivered,
showing what she thought of that idea.

Okay. Maybe Earth and Jupiter
wouldn’t collide.

Carol tapped her on the shoulder
and leaned close. “It’s about to get interesting.”  She pointed to the
bar. Sam Jordonson and Tom Holt had taken a table directly in front of the big
screen television. A barely-legal waitress in a short black skirt placed a tall
beer in front of each of them. Tom was looking at the girl’s butt, but Sam had
his eyes on the big screen television in the corner of the bar.

Maddie grabbed for her jacket.
“We’re leaving,” she said. She put her hand under her mother’s elbow and
attempted to push her toward the door.

Her mother shrugged her off.
“Darling, stop it. We can’t leave. I’m on Travis’s team.”

She said it like she’d just
qualified for the Olympics. It was the second time that day that Maddie had
seen that same look. She’d been outside in the sandbox with the small kids when
she’d seen Sam organizing a game of after-school kickball. He’d picked Libby,
the sweet, skinny nine-year-old who inevitably got picked last when it came
time to choose up teams, to be the team captain. She’d lit up like a Christmas
tree and none of the boys had wanted to argue with Sam.   

“Oh, fine,” Maddie said and sank
down on her chair. “Would somebody just bring me a drink?”

*

Sam had finished his
double-bacon-cheeseburger and fries and washed it down with a beer when he
looked across the bowling alley and saw the back of Maddie Sinclair’s head. He
closed his eyes for a couple seconds and then looked again. Could that really
be her? He leaned to the side to get a better look.

It was Maddie, all right. She was
sitting by herself, in one of the ugly green booths, with her elbow on the
table, and her chin propped in her open palm. She had three, no make that four,
empty glasses sitting in front of her.

He pushed his chair away from the
table. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Tom.

Tom didn’t answer. The Chicago
Blackhawks were on the ice and overtime had just started.

When Sam reached the table, Maddie
didn’t bother to move. She just lifted an eyebrow. “Fancy meeting you here,”
she said.

He slid in next to her. He leaned
close so that she could hear him. “Drinking alone?” he asked, nodding in the
direction of the glasses.

She shook her head and gave him a
silly smile. “My mother’s bowling.”

He turned and looked. Just in
time to see Mrs. Sinclair loft her ball halfway down the lane. It hit the floor
with a thud and rolled ten more feet before veering off into the gutter. “She
does shot-put in the Junior League, doesn’t she?” he asked.

Maddie blinked her pretty blue
eyes, and Sam, although he knew it was physically impossible, felt his heart do
a little flip. Lord, she was pretty. And she smelled good. Like raspberries. Her
skirt, probably a nice respectable length when she was standing, had hiked up
and now showed off a fair amount of smooth leg. He scooted an inch closer,
almost close enough to rub his leg against her.

The waitress, a tray of dirty
dishes in one hand, stopped in front of the table. “You want another?” she
said.

Sam shook his head, but Maddie
pulled a ten-dollar bill out of her shirt pocket. “Sure,” she said. “With
whipped cream.”

Whipped Cream? Smooth, naked
skin?

She’d be a sweet sin. 

“Maybe you should call it a
night?” he asked, after the waitress had walked away.

“I have to wait for my mother.”
She turned her head to look at him. “Do you want to know something?” she asked,
her voice full of wonder.

“Sure.”

“Strawberry Daiquiri’s are almost
better than cheesecake.”

She was so serious it made him
smile. “Good to know,” he said. “Are you taking any pain pills still?”

She shook her head.

“Good,” he said. “Wouldn’t want
to mix those with alcohol. Even so, I think you’ve probably had enough tonight.”

“Oh, no. I don’t think I’ve had
nearly enough.” She leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

She was close enough to kiss. Her
face was literally just inches away from his mouth. He could see the freckles
on her cheeks and the gentle sweep of her thick lashes against her fair
skin.  Her lips, make-up free, were parted just slightly. She was perfect.
Absolutely beautiful.

And if he wasn’t mistaken,
definitely over-served and sound asleep.

“Maddie,” he said.

Nothing.

“Come on, honey. Wake up.” He
flexed his shoulder. She sighed and snuggled closer.

Oh, shit. Sam flicked his eyes
around the dingy bowling alley. At least five small groups gathered around
tables, mostly talking, some watching the lanes. Nobody seemed to be paying
them much attention. He needed to get her out of the building before somebody
noticed that sweet Maddie Sinclair, the woman people trusted to take care of
their children, was drunk.

He shoved back the table another
three inches. Then, gently, he pressed on her shoulder, guiding her body until
it lay on the seat of the booth. She didn’t make a sound. He slipped out of the
booth and headed toward Carol. Hoping that Maddie wouldn’t wake up and roll off
the bench, he kept one eye on the lanes and one eye on Maddie’s table. He
waited until Carol threw her ball and when she turned, he crooked his finger at
her.

“Dr. G. How goes it?” Carol
asked, as she approached. “Did you see me pick up that spare?”

He nodded. “It was a thing of beauty.
Look, can you make sure Mrs. Sinclair gets back to Maddie’s house tonight?”

Carol frowned and looked around
the bowling alley. “Where’s Maddie?”

He discreetly motioned to the
table. “Look close and you can see her feet.”

“What happened?” Carol asked,
clearly alarmed.

“She’s fine,” Sam assured her. “A
bit over the legal limit, I think. I came with Tom Holt so I’m going to need to
take her car to drive her home. Just make sure her mother gets there. And, if
you don’t mind, tell Tom Holt that I left. Don’t give him any details.”

Carol squinted her eyes at him.
“I’ve known Tom since grade school. You think you needed to tell me that?”

Sam laughed. “Probably not. Thank
you.”

He got back to the booth, slid in
next to Maddie, and tapped her on the shoulder. “Sweetie, you and I are taking
a trip. Wake up.”

She opened one eye. “No,” she
said, and closed the eye again.

He reached for her purse, opened
it, and pulled out her car keys. He gently pushed her into an upright position.
She didn’t resist but she was frowning. “Sam? Why are you doing this to me?
Leave me alone. Look,” she pointed across the room to where two grungy boys
with guitars slung around their shoulders were making a big production out of
checking electrical cords and microphones. “The band is about to play. Maybe
I’ll dance.”

Her bending and twisting in that
skirt? The men in the place would quickly lose interest in their bowling games
and it wouldn’t matter if the Blackhawks were playing for the Stanley Cup. “You
can’t dance, you just had surgery,” he said. “Let’s go. Carol’s taking your
mother home.”

She slumped back against the
cracked vinyl of the booth. “What am I going to do with my mother?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.
“But we don’t need to solve it tonight. Come on.” Gently, he pulled her out of
the booth and into a standing position.

When she wobbled, he had no
choice but to wrap an arm around her waist. He led her out of the loud bowling
alley into the absolute stillness of the spring night. The air was chilly and
he pulled her tighter against his body, realizing for the first time how petite
she really was. Her tousled blond hair barely came up to his chin and he felt
like a big strong wind could whip her slender frame right out of his
arms.  

He opened the door and she sank
down on the leather seat. Her skirt inched up and she didn’t even seem to
notice. He wanted to yank it down, to take away the temptation, but he knew if
he touched her, he was officially toast. 

Instead he reached across her,
grabbed the seat belt, and buckled her in. Then he shut the door and took a
good long time walking around the front of the car, hoping that the cool air
would clear his overheated imagination.

He opened his door, confident
that he could handle it. He started the car, backed out of the stall, and
pulled out onto the street. Five minutes later, he pulled into her driveway,
pushed the button on her garage-door opener, and pulled her car in. Then, with
a flick of his wrist, he turned off the car and then sat in the dark. He didn’t
have a clue what he should do next. 

He heard her unbuckle her
seatbelt. Saw her reach for the door.

“I’ll walk you in,” he said. He
wanted to make sure that she didn’t take a header off the stairs on her way to
her apartment. Then he was going home for a cold shower. He got out, walked
around the car, and opened her door. She held out her hand and he took it. Her
skin was warm, almost hot.

The garage door led into the
daycare kitchen. Maddie stopped long enough to drop her purse on the table and
walked directly to the foyer by the front door. He thought she was going to
walk up the stairs, but she sank down on the second step. The shades in the
play area to the right had been left up and light from the moon filtered into
the room. 

“Sit down, Sam,” she said,
patting the spot next to her. 

That would not be a good idea.
“Maddie, I better get going. Let’s get you upstairs.”

She shook her head. “In a
minute.” She patted the spot again. “Please.”

He eased down on the step,
hugging the wall. He thought he was doing just fine until she slipped off her
shoes and stretched out her legs, crossing them at the ankles.

She had bright red toenails.
Smooth, small feet.

Funny. He’d never envied a
podiatrist before.

“Sam,” she said, her voice soft,
“what’s the scariest thing you’ve ever done?”

That was easy. “White-water
rafting.”

“What was the hardest thing
you’ve ever done?”

Burying Gwen
. Nothing had ever come close to
that. “Going to medical school,” he said.

“But you did, didn’t you?” She sounded
surprisingly sober.

“I did. And that’s sort of a big
deal to you, isn’t it.”

She nodded. “So. You know that
I’m not into you.”

“Duly noted.”

“And that any…well anything
between us is just…entertainment.”

Where the hell was this going?
“I’m easily amused,” he said.

She smiled and leaned into him.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close. “I’m going to regret
it if I don’t do this,” she whispered. “Just this once.” Then she pressed her
lips against his.

He froze.

“Please,” she begged and drew the
tip of her tongue across his bottom lip.

He could not, would not, take
advantage. She might sound sober, but he’d seen the empty glasses. “Maddie, we
can’t. It’s not—”

She pressed her mouth hard
against his and stuck her tongue in his mouth.

Oh, hell.   

Her mouth was warm and wet and
damn it, if she wanted to be kissed, well then, he didn’t plan on disappointing
her.

She squirmed, and wiggled, and
through it all, he kissed her. And kissed her. They couldn’t get enough of each
other, couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t share enough.

 And somehow, he wasn’t sure
how it happened, he had his hand under her shirt. Her skin was hot and
silky-soft and he thought he might explode when his thumb brushed across her
bra and he could feel the stiff point of her nipple. She groaned and he
captured the sound, his mouth devouring her. 

Knock-knock.

Maddie jerked back, her eyes
wide-open. She was half-sitting, half-lying on top of him, and oh, man, she had
soft parts pressed against his hard parts. 

Knock-knock.

 “My door,” she said, her
voice breathless.

Hell. “Ignore it,” he said.

“Madelyn, it’s your father. Open
the goddamned door.”

“Holy fuck,” she said.

It was the first time he’d heard
her swear. He wasn’t sure who the comment was directed at. Maybe him, because
he’d had his hands up her shirt and his tongue in her mouth. Maybe herself,
because she’d been keeping pace just fine. Or maybe her father, who was late to
the party. “I don’t suppose ignoring it is an option?” he asked.

She shook her head and moved off
his lap. “Go,” she said, pointing to the kitchen. “No, stay. I mean—”

“Frances,” the voice yelled. “If
this is your idea of a joke, it’s not funny.”

“Never mind,” she said. She stood
in the moonlight and straightened her spine. “I’ve got to let him in.” 

He felt the warmth of hot blood
still running through his veins. It had been a long time, maybe forever, that a
woman had made him feel this way. 

He’d loved Gwen. Maybe even after
she’d left him. And later, when she’d driven her car off the edge of the
mountain, he mourned her.

And he’d been content to be
alone, thinking it was better.

It hadn’t been.

Sam watched her flip the bolt
locks on the front door. He settled back against the step.  He wasn’t
going anywhere.

*

Peter Sinclair was close to sixty
with a full head of silver hair. His skin was tan, his teeth too-white for his
age, and he wore a watch that cost more than most people made in a year. And
when he looked at Sam, Sam had no doubt the man knew exactly what Sam been
doing with his daughter on the stairs. It didn’t help that half of Maddie’s
shirt was not tucked and her lips looked swollen from his kisses.

“Father,” Maddie said, her hands
clasped in front of her. “This is Sam. Sam, this is my father, Dr. Peter
Sinclair.”

Sam stood and offered his hand.
“Sir,” he said.

Peter Sinclair returned the
shake, then looked at his daughter, his eyes full of speculation. “Have you two
been dating long?”

“Oh, we’re not dating,” Maddie denied.

“Really?” her father asked,
raising one eyebrow. Sam was always amazed when people could actually do that
one eyebrow thing.

“Oh, no,” Maddie said. “We barely
know each other.”

Did she have any idea how much
worse she was making this?

“Sam…uh, Sam works here.
Does…stuff. You know, like odd jobs.”

Peter Sinclair scratched his
head. “Where’s your mother?” he asked.

“She’s bowling,” Maddie said.

More eyebrow action. “Where is
she really, Maddie?”

“I’m serious, Father. She’s
bowling. With friends of mine.”

Peter Sinclair closed his eyes
and shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Bowling isn’t any more
foolish than the rest of the things she’s done this week.”

“She thinks you’re having an
affair,” Maddie said.

That surprised the man. It
appeared that he hadn’t expected his daughter to be so bold. “That’s none of
your concern,” he said.

“Is it true?” she asked,
obviously not willing to back down. 

He didn’t answer. Which was
likely answer enough.

She couldn’t press the issue
because suddenly the front door opened again and Mrs. Sinclair, Carol, and
Travis Muldoon entered in a whirlwind of talk and laughter.

Evidently the bowling had ended
on a high note. Mrs. Sinclair had her bowling shoes tied together at the laces
and draped around her neck.

“Peter,” she said, her smile
fading.

“Frances.” Maddie’s father
studied his wife. “What the hell happened to your hair?”

Mrs. Sinclair lifted her nose.
“What are you doing here?”

“I believe I was summoned.”

Mrs. Sinclair shrugged. “I never summoned
you.”

Mr. Sinclair rolled his eyes.
“What exactly would you call the seven page letter you left me?”

           
“Seven pages?” Maddie repeated.

“I believe in being thorough,”
Mrs. Sinclair said. “I thought he should understand what he was giving up.”

“Yes, well, for the record,
Frances, I don’t want the stupid plate collection. I always hated those plates.
Plates belong flat on a table, not perched on some rail, ready to fall off at
any moment on some unsuspecting soul.” 

Mrs. Sinclair sucked in so much
air Sam thought it was a miracle she didn’t explode.

Carol pushed Travis toward the
door. “I think we’ll be shoving off.” They were out of the door before anybody
could stop them.

No way were they leaving him here
with these two bickering fools. He took a step toward the door but stopped when
he saw Maddie’s face. She was so pale and stood so still. While Mrs. Sinclair
looked full of air, Maddie looked like it had all seeped out.

He reached her side in four steps
and cupped his hand under her elbow. “Come on, let’s go. I’ll walk you
upstairs.”

She looked at her father, then
her mother, then back to her father. “Are you planning to stay, Father?” she
asked, her voice small.

He huffed out a sigh. “I’ve come
a long way just to turn around and get on a plane tonight.”

“You can’t stay here,” Mrs.
Sinclair announced.

“I’ll get a hotel.”

“There are no hotel rooms,”
Maddie said, sounding very tired. “Soccer tournament.”

Mrs. Sinclair smiled at her
husband. “There’s a nice park about two blocks north of here. That’s where the
other roving dogs sleep.” She turned on her heel and walked up the stairs.
“Pleasant dreams,” she said, never turning around.

Maddie sank down on the step, the
same step she’d been sitting on when she’d kissed the breath out of him. Then she’d
looked hot and sexy, but now, she looked exhausted. Sam really wanted to grab
both Frances and Peter Sinclair by the back of their necks, dump them in a
sack, and shake the hell out of them.   
             

“Look, Maddie,” he said, talking
before he could convince himself to shut up. “Your father can stay at my place.
We’ve got an extra room. Jean won’t mind. They’ll already be asleep tonight,
and Kelsie’s got swim lessons early in the morning.”