True Bliss (43 page)

Once more Polly searched about.

Finding out a person's habits wasn't so hard, either. But Fer-rito wasn't here today.

He liked cats. He wouldn't make threatening phone calls. She didn't know what he would do, they'd never even exchanged a smile. Exasperated, by the power of a stranger to frighten her, by her own weakness, by the ridiculous leap in logic she was making, Polly turned back.

She'd never heard him speak ... or whisper.

Startled, Polly couldn't move.

She hadn't heard the approach of his bare feet on the wooden planking of the dock.

"Hi," Nasty Ferrito said. "Nice evening."

Her blue eyes stretched wide open. Very blue eyes, but he already knew that from watching her TV show.

Apart from dropping her hands to her sides she didn't move. Polly Crow, bubbly singing star of Polly s Place, the most popular children's show to hit the box in a decade, stared at him with her mouth open. If he didn't know how ridiculous it would be, he'd say she was afraid of him.

"Getting colder." Talking about the weather. He'd finally decided to quit stalling and force a meeting with the woman, and he was talking about the weather.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly. On television her straight, thick hair appeared lighter. In person it was a dark honey blond. This evening she wore it pulled back into a band at her nape. Her skin was pale. He'd found out from watching her on the docks that she was thinner than she appeared on the screen. Average height, but small.

He preferred more substantial women—stronger women.

Or he had.

Hell, his legs felt shaky.

This wasn't close enough. Nothing would be close enough. He wanted to touch her.

"Are you cold?" he asked. Sounded too personal.

Polly Crow shook her head. Her neck was slender, the bones at its base delicate. He'd read about seeing people's pulses beat. This was the first time he'd ever noticed.

She bowed her head and looked up at him. Her dark lashes were tipped with gold.

And Nasty's heart stopped beating. He hadn't imagined the effect she had on him—no, he hadn't imagined that. A man shouldn't be able to feel protective and predatory at the same time. So? he was breaking new ground. He'd like to cover her up and protect her from the world—and be inside her while he did it.

Good thing he'd spent almost as much of his adult life wearing a wet suit as he had anything else. Wet suits were great. Short of armor, they were the best way he knew of masking an erection. The hard-on inside his suit felt as if it had the power to punch holes in concrete. He dropped to sit on his heels and stroke Seven who had, as usual, followed him up the steps from the side of the dock where he'd tied up the dinghy.

This wasn't the way he'd rehearsed this meeting but then, he was no expert at approaching women he thought he could fall in love with. In fact, he'd never done this before.

He'd never fallen in love. "Winter's coming." Hell.

"Yes," she said. Her voice wasn't breathy on television.

"Beautiful time of the year."

"Yes."

Oh, great. "Am I bothering you?"

Her shoulders rose. She gripped one of the standards that supported a hanging basket.

Nasty picked up Seven and bounced to his feet. "I wouldn't want to intrude." Yeah, he would. "Excuse me if—"

"No." She shook her head emphatically. "No. You excuse me, please. You took me by surprise, that's all. It's pretty quiet out here."

A nice voice. More than nice. Sometimes he closed his eyes to listen to her on TV Laughter hung out somewhere in there.

And she could sing. All those kids' songs he listened to. He smothered a grin. Nasty Ferrito, ex-navy SEAL, tough veteran of more life-on-the-line covert operations than he could remember, made a point of tuning in Polly s Place and listening as if he was into Down and Out the Main Monsters, and watching Gavin the Paint Man. Ferrito's crusty partner, Dusty Miller, had plenty to say about that. Nasty passed it off as practice for when Junior, an old friend's little girl, came to visit. Dusty wasn't fooled.

"Nice black cat."

Her spontaneous comment surprised him. He stroked Seven's sinuous body and long tail. "Unlucky for some," he said. "We get along."

"That's thirteen."

Nasty squinted at her. "Seven."

"Thirteen—unlucky for some. Not black cats are unlucky for some—or seven."

Definitely not the way he'd rehearsed this encounter. "Communication gap," he said. Each time he looked into her face, that look lasted a little longer. He risked stepping closer and turning until the cat faced Polly Crow. "Her name's Seven."

"Ah, I see." Polly laughed. Her fingernails were short and devoid of polish. She smoothed Seven's head. "Why Seven?"

"Always liked the number and I found her—scratch that— she found me on a Sunday. Seventh day of the week. What are you afraid of?" He'd have to put that ofT-the-wall question down to rusty social skills.

"I'm not afraid of anything. What makes you think I am?"

He slung Seven into her favorite position, draped over his shoulder. "Hell, I don't know. Just a feeling." Another sense you developed when you lived largely on your instincts for a long time.

Her eyes became unblinking. She nailed him with that stare. "Why do you come by here each evening?"

"Do I come by each evening?"

"Yes, you know you do."

"Maybe I live on one of these boats."

"Do you?"

Triumph shouldn't be what he felt, but he did. She'd noticed him—noticed when he visited, and how often. "I live on a boat. But it's in front of my partner's house." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Farther up the shore. I come in the evening because I like it here."

"Why?"

"I just told you why."

She crossed her arms. "No you didn't. The whole waterfront is lovely. But you always come right here." She pointed downward and crossed her arms again.

Not a big woman in any respect, but nice, very nice. Keeping his eyes above her breasts wasn't easy. "Why do you come here every evening?" he asked.

"Because .. ." Pink swept along her cheekbones, and the soft skin of her neck. "It's calm. Quiet. I like that."

"Calm and quiet on this dock rather than, say, that one?" He pointed south, then north, "Or that one?"

"I like this one."

"Know what I think?" Dusty always came out with the truth, swore he could live with letting the chips fall where they might. "I think you come here because I do. I think you come out here each evening hoping to see me."

Her lips formed a silent Oh!

Smugness didn't suit a man. Nasty felt smug anyway."You walked out here tonight expecting to see me. You were looking for me when I came up behind you."

"Ooh." She planted her feet in her flat brown sandals and her face worked through one expression after another. "Crumb! Well, I've never met a man with so much— ego. I certainly don't come out here to look for you. We just happen to come at the same time, that's all. It doesn't mean a thing. Not to me."

He wouldn't remark on crumb as an expletive—yet. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven." Another silent Oh! "Crumb! I can't believe

it. You sashay up here, accuse me of taking walks because I want to see you, then ask me how old I am."

Nasty shifted Seven to his other shoulder and unzipped his wet suit to the waist. Despite the wind he was feeling increasingly hot.

Polly Crow looked at his chest.

"Sashay, huh? No one ever accused me of sashaying before. Sounds cute."

"There's nothing cute about you," she told him, glancing away, then back at his chest. "Nothing."

He'd swear she was responding to him. "Good. Cute wouldn't suit me." Maybe his thoughts were wishful, but he doubted it. "You're cute."

"You're pushy. How old are you?"

"Fair enough. Thirty-six. Is that too old?"

"Too old for what?"

"For you."

Polly Crow made a lot of silent, Oh's!

"You watch me, Polly Crow. You come out here and watch me in the dinghy almost every night."

"Crumb!" Again expressions washed over her features. "You know my name."

"Don't you think everyone in Kirkland knows your name?"

"No."

He spread the fingers of his right hand on his chest, inside the wet suit. "You're on TV every afternoon. Sing the song for me.

An amazed frown was all he got.

"Come on. Everybody needs somebody. Everybody is somebody. Somebody needs everybody. Sing it for me."

"No." She took a step backward. Her fascination with his chest was undeniable. "Are you telling me you watch Polly's Place? In the afternoon? A children's program?"

"Yep, yep, and yep. Quite often."

"Then you come over here to watch me in person."

"I come over here."

"Grown men don't make a habit of watching children's programs in the afternoon—probably almost never."

"Lots of grown men would if they knew they'd see you." He'd said it. No taking back the words. "You do hope to see me when you come here, don't you?"

Another pink rush rose up her neck. She spun away and gave a startled yelp as a scatter of seagulls came in for a landing.

"Don't you?" Nasty persisted. "I come to see you and you come to see me."

Their heads jerking, the gulls strutted across the decking. Seven spared them a glare but knew better than to take chase. "Hey," Nasty said softly. "I have scared you. Damn, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. Would you like to see my boat?"

Polly turned to face him again. "You've got to be kidding. Would I like to see your boat? I guess it's more original than etchings."

He doubted she'd laugh if he told her he had some etchings on the boat. "Let me take you out on the dinghy, then. Peaceful out there."

"You think I'm going to get into a little rubber boat with a man I don't know?'

Smiling didn't come easily, never had, but he managed. "You might. Never any harm in asking."

"No, thank you."

"I'm good with boats. Safe. I'll take care of you."

Where there'd been a blush, pallor seeped in. "I don't need taking care of—by anyone."

This was not going well.

She said. "I can keep myself safe." But she didn't try to leave. "What do you think of answering machines?"

A flurry of activity passed between the gulls and they took off, crying and swooping, their wings battering the air.

"Did you ask me what I think of answering machines?"

"Simple enough question."

"Okay. I think answering machines are great."

"Because you can leave messages you'd be afraid to give in person?"

He couldn't begin to guess where this was going. "Because they make it possible to make sure you don't miss a call. And you don't have to be tethered to the damn phone all the time."

"I've got to get back."

"No you don't. You're through for the day."

Her hand went to her throat. "You don't know that?"

"Sure I do. When you leave here you'll go to your condo. Alone. Your boy's not with you at the moment."

A sharp breath made a scraping sound in her throat. "Good night."

Automatically, Nasty stepped aside. "Yeah, sure."

When she drew level, she paused and whispered, "Leave me alone, please. I haven't done anything to you."

By the time he rallied she was several yards away. He caught up easily. "Polly? Look, if I upset you, I'm sorry. Of course you haven't done anything to me. I thought it was time we talked. Nothing more complicated than that."

She stopped and stared toward the sky. "Time we talked? Now why on earth would it be time we talked?"

"I put that badly. I guess I haven't had a whole lot of practice at this"—he spread his arms—"and before you ask me what 'this' is, I mean coming on to women without at least asking them to dance or buying them a drink first."

"Charming," she said through her teeth. There was fire in those blue eyes now. "If some woman is stupid enough to dance with you, or let you buy her a drink, you think you can come on to her."

"Geez, not exactly. I mean, not—"

"She's supposed to understand you expect sex? Men like you are a menace."

"I do not—"

"Well, you and I haven't danced and you haven't bought me a drink."

"Would you like a drink?" He groaned aloud.

Polly wrinkled her nose. "That's disgusting."

"You looked at my chest."

She covered her mouth.

He should have stayed in the dinghy. "I mean, I think you find me attractive, too. I think I turn you . . ." Great going, Ferrito. "We may have a mutual appeal."

"You are absolutely unbelievable. And if you're doing what I think you're doing to me, stop it. I don't have any proof yet, but I'll get it."

He gaped at her.

"Oh, I know about scrambling numbers for anonymity, but sooner or later you'll make a mistake and get caught."

"Er, sure. Anything you say." Most people might be wholly confused by what she said. Nasty also knew about scrambling numbers—and a great many other covert procedures. "Polly, we've gotten off to a bad start."

Her laugh cut him. "We haven't started, period!" With that she set off at a brisk pace.

Nasty followed. "I guess I've said everything wrong. Will you give me another chance? Can I see you again?"

"Not if I see you first."

He strode along beside her. "That's a cliche."

"You ought to know. It's about the only one I haven't heard you use."

"If you knew me, you'd like me."

"I'd hate you. I already do."

The venom in her tone stopped him, but only for an instant. He fell into step as she turned to walk along another of the bobbing docks. "All I can say is sorry, again. I'll go away now."

"Good."

"You've very beautiful, you know."

When she looked sideways at him he could swear there were tears in her eyes. She said, "You just told me you were going away."

"I am. I wanted to tell you how beautiful you are, though."

"Thanks. I'll tell my husband you said so."

"You don't have a husband."

"Who are you?" Her voice rose. "Who are you?"