Two Wrongs Make a Right (8 page)

“After the fact.”

“Well, would it make you feel better if I said I was fantasizing about him the entire time you were on top of me?”

“God. I can’t believe you. Just go.” He turned and left the room because he couldn’t stand to look at her another minute. Cold sweat beaded above his lip and a flashback he’d not had in months came in Technicolor. He shivered, and then went to get a glass of whiskey.

An hour later, he was still awake with Vanessa on his mind. The casual sex meant nothing to her, but to her fiancé, it’d mean everything. The guy would blame Dak, and he’d been down that road. It was one he didn’t care to travel again. He understood that whole Karma thing and hoped Karma understood his innocence.

The next morning, he went into the bathroom and started the shower. Placing his palms flat against the wall, hot water rained on him. He wished he could wash Vanessa out of his brain, but the thrust of her body, the touch of her hands, and the sound of her sighs drummed in his head. The one thing he hated most in life was a liar. She’d lied by omission, but in his book that carried the same weight as blatant deceit.

He stepped out of the stall and dried himself off, then wiped the mirror with his forearm. Bloodshot eyes told the story of a sleepless night, but not the guilt that settled behind them. He rubbed his fingers across the scar on his chest. A half-inch in the other direction, he’d be dead because of another woman’s lie. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the beautiful blonde who’d approached him in the bar asking to share his table. Hours later, they’d shared more than drinks.

It’d been ten years, and he wondered if the memory would ever fade. The stranger’s face flashed in his head and Dak recalled how he’d not felt threatened by the man until he raised the gun and fired. No time to react, and there’d been no place to hide.

He pulled on his boxers, then went to the closet. He didn’t keep a full wardrobe at the condo, but enough for a few days. Planning to steer clear of the place and women for a while might help erase the previous night’s mistake. If any good came from the error in judgment, it was a hard lesson learned. In the future, he’d be damned sure to establish a woman’s relationship status before he took her to bed.

Once dressed, he went to the kitchen, stuck two pieces of bread in the toaster, and started the coffee. When the toast popped up, he slathered on butter and spread some of his mother’s strawberry jam on thick. Then he thought of Sim. She’d set him up and would take responsibility. The blunder might convince her to stop trying to find him a soul mate. If that happened, at least some good would come from his recklessness.

He shook his head to clear it and tried to concentrate on work. Soon, he’d meet with the top guys at Media Corp. for a second time. The appointment should give him a good idea if his job remained intact.

His phone sounded, and he grimaced when he saw his sister’s name. He steeled his shoulders. “Hello.”

“How’d it go last night?”

“Did you know she’s in a relationship with a soldier?”

Sim’s voice elevated an octave. “What?”

“Yeah. Something she forgot to mention.”

“Oh God, I am so sorry. I would have never invited her to Mom’s if I’d known.”

“Let this be a lesson. Stop fixing me up. I mean it. I’m more than capable of finding women on my own.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have asked. I never dreamed…”

“Not your fault. At least the guy is out of the country. The last thing I need is another jealous man to come gunning for me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got to go.”

“Wait. Are we still on for our weekly lunch on Thursday?”

“Yeah. I’m not mad at you. This is my fault. I should have asked her. See you later.” He ended the call, put the incident out of his mind, and tried to regain his good mood from yesterday, before Vanessa, the liar.

Two hours later, after sitting behind stalled traffic on his route to work, Dak angled into his marked parking space. On the elevator ride up to his office, he attempted to concentrate on the ad campaigns waiting on his desk, but Vanessa kept appearing. Each time, he’d shake the thought away, only to have it surface again. Fresh emotions like anger took time to age. Today would be difficult, and the best way to handle it was to bury his head in work.

“Good morning, Helen.”

His secretary glanced up and smiled. “You want a cup of coffee, you look as if you need it. Rough night?”

For the past twelve years, other than his mom and sister, Helen was the woman he counted on to keep his business life in order. He wondered why all women couldn’t be more like her—dependable and trustworthy. “That’s an understatement.”

She disappeared around the corner then returned moments later with cup in hand, set it on his desk, and settled herself into the chair across from him. “Want to talk?”

He pulled open his desk drawer, retrieved a bottle of Ibuprofen and shook four tablets into his palm. He put them in his mouth, tossed his head back, and swallowed them with a big gulp. The liquid seared all the way down his throat, and he hoped the combination burned his headache away. He rubbed his neck. “I made a mistake last night.”

Helen lowered her head and peered over the top of her glasses. He didn’t much feel like a lecture, but he’d opened the can of worms, so whatever she dished out, he had to take.

“It involve a woman?”

He nodded, and hoped his lack of details ended the conversation, then remembered in all the time she’d worked for him, that had never happened. Before the age of fifty, she’d outlived two husbands so advice was her strong point, especially in the romance department. “What happened? You get drunk and go to bed with a ten and wake up with a two?”

He laughed. That Texas drawl of hers could make the alphabet sound funny. He regained his composure and started to answer, but Helen held up her hand.

“No need to tell me. It’s none of my business, but if you need advice, I’m here for you.”

She rose from the chair and offered her best motherly smile. The one he’d grown to love. He must look bad for her to give up so easily. “Thanks. Maybe when the caffeine starts working, and my head is clear, I’ll take you up on that offer.”

She headed to the door and spoke over her shoulder. “The yellow folder on your desk has the research results you needed. I’ll bring you another cup.”

Dang. If she were his age, he’d marry her, and make everybody happy. He loved that she didn’t consider bringing him coffee sexist. Hell, she liked taking care of him. Yeah, he needed to find a younger Helen. He shouldered back in his chair and followed a ray of light across the room, as it glinted against the ten crystal award plaques lining his bookshelves. That recognition, along with his track record, should be enough to secure his job. But according to the rumors, he wasn’t sure they’d save him.

Things were looking up. Quinn’s editor liked the articles she’d submitted so far, and if readers left positive comments, the Ask Alice column would be hers. He’d said as much. With it came a big raise and a secure future. Barring a scandal involving the mistreatment of children, animals or old people, she’d have the by-line for eternity.

She logged on to Marriage Minded and read over her latest selections, then listed them by their monikers. Singing Cowboy, Skywriter, Homeboy, Animal Addict, and Medicine Man. Each profile offered information that caught her eye.

She put The Chosen Five on her calendar. First up, Cowboy. He had written,
I’m a hopeless romantic and an old school gentleman when it comes to women. I love movies and music.
Quinn loved that. She appreciated a man who opened a door or pulled out a chair. Besides, this was Texas. What was not to love about a cowboy?

In his last email, he’d suggested the location for their date, which was fine by her. This was an opportunity to try new places, and just because there’d been no love connection with Walt or Stargazer, Cowboy could be The One.

In choosing the five, she’d used the elimination process of her compatibility rules. Some might judge the approach cold and calculating, but that’s not the way she saw it. Women sometimes got caught up in a guy’s looks or wealth, and forgot what was important in a relationship. The list served as a reminder. Some women flew by the seats of their pants, but if they were serious to find true love, and not just a good time, priorities needed to be in place. Especially for women in their thirties. Clocks were ticking. Hers—double time.

Pushing the laptop aside, she went to the closet to choose an outfit. He’d asked to meet at one of the newest country bars in Austin,
Save a Horse
. The rest of the lyric,
ride a cowboy
, made her stomach clench. She hoped it wasn’t a subliminal message. She didn’t have western boots, but had a pair of knee-high black suede with some studs around the top. They’d work.

She’d studied each man’s bio and prepared conversation. This was a mission, and to make it a success, she needed to prepare like a soldier. In college, she recalled reading
The Principles of War.
She didn’t remember all nine points, but four came to mind.

Objective
. Direct your operation toward a clear, decisive, and attainable objective. She had defined it, now needed to attain it.

Surprise
. Strike in a manner for which the enemy is unprepared. This is where planning ahead came in handy. Study their interests and have plenty of knowledge concerning each one. Men loved it when women gave importance to the things they liked. She could stroke an ego with the best of them.

Security
. Never let the opponent gain the upper-hand. She’d heard a joke a long time ago which proved to be true. During a date, the woman was the only one who knew if sex would happen. Definite advantage.

Simplicity
. Prepare clear, uncomplicated plans, and concise orders to ensure thorough understanding. Without sounding needy or desperate, she’d find out each man’s timetable. If marriage and family weren’t in his immediate future—mission aborted.

A wide smile spread. If she had fatigues and combat boots, wardrobe selection would be solved.

By the time Quinn got to Ride a Horse, trucks and a few cars packed the parking lot. She circled around a second time before she found a space barely big enough to fit
Shania
. The name made her laugh. Back in 1999, to celebrate the purchase of the car, it’d been a club much like this one where she and her two friends had christened the Altima, by Raynie puking in the back seat while singing Shania Twain’s
Honey I’m Home
, and insisting they name the car after the singer.

Quinn turned her attention to the reason for the big turnout—karaoke night. She’d not been to an amateur vocal performance in a long time, but they proved entertaining as the night went on and the audience got drunk. Nothing like a few beers under the belt to make a person imagine they were George Straight or Shania Twain. Raynie was proof of that.

Nudging through the crowd, she tiptoed to locate her latest match. After a few minutes, she made her way closer to the stage and realized she’d been looking in the wrong direction. There he was front and center belting out a Jason Aldean song and doing a better job than the country star. The guy had talent and from the amount of women gathered, this was not his first performance.

Decked out in a denim shirt tucked into button fly jeans, he worked the crowd. A big black hat kept his face in shadow, but she could tell he was more handsome than his photo. As he moved to the beat, light reflected off his oversized buckle. He was pure country, right down to his snakeskin boots.

Quinn decided she was overdressed and underexposed. She’d not seen so many breasts bulging from tank tops since the sixth season of Baywatch. Her button up blouse proved to be a poor choice, if she intended to compete with these girls for his attention. Which brought a question to mind. Why was he on a dating site if he had plenty of female admirers? She filed the women in the frosting category. Fluffy, pink, and lickable. As usual, she felt like cake. Two layers.

She caught his eye, and he walked toward her. When he reached the edge of the stage, he knelt, took her hand, and finished the song gazing into her eyes, as if she was the only girl in the room. An odd sensation slid down her spine and back up again, causing the hair on her arms to rise. Her Principles of War were out the window. He’d turned the tables by surprising her and now had the advantage.

Heat carried pink to her cheeks and she couldn’t look at him any longer, so she glanced away. All eyes were on her, and her face burned hotter. Thank goodness he rose for the big finish and the crowd approved.

Taking his bow, he left the stage and fought his way through the horde of hotties, slid his hand across the small of Quinn’s back and ushered her to a table in the corner. He widened a big toothy grin and sang, “Me-O, My-O, you’re more beautiful than your photo.”

Apparently he wasn’t ready for his performance to end. “Thank you.” She slid onto the seat he’d pulled out. He grabbed the chair next to her and moved it closer, then sat too. “Want a drink?” he asked in his regular voice then sang, “The wine is fine, and the beer is cold.”

He was taking his site name to heart. “A beer, please. What should I call you?”

He removed his hat and set it on the table, then crooned, “You don’t have to call me darlin’, Darlin’. You can call me Jake.” Then he threw his hand in the air to signal a waitress, as if it was normal to put conversation into song.

Quinn smiled. “You’re very good. I enjoyed your cover of
Amarillo Sky
.”

“Thanks. But enough about me, let’s talk about you. What part of media do you work in?”

The lightbulb came on. Crooner Jake wanted media coverage and didn’t disguise it. Gee, he could have at least laid on a few more compliments. “Staff writer for a newspaper. Women’s articles. Fashion, childcare, romance.” His eyes dimmed, and he started to say or sing something, but the waitress arrived to get their orders, then sashayed away with Jake watching her butt like it was providing the beat for his next outburst, which didn’t take long. He finished the first line of
I Don’t Dance
, then stood, extended his hand as invitation to do just that. Quinn slipped her palm in his and they headed to the floor. He twirled her, then pulled her in tight, and took off in a slow two-step.