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“But it won’t be on TV, will it? Galan always watches the news.”
“Who knows?” Jaine rubbed her forehead. “I guess it depends on how slow news is today. But if I were you, I’d turn off all the phones and unplug the one that’s hooked to the answering machine.”
“Done,” T.J. said. She paused and said bleakly, “I guess I’ll find out if Galan and I have anything worth holding on to, won’t I? I can’t expect him to be happy about this, but I do expect him to be understanding. After we talked about our Mr. Perfect last week, I did some thinking, and, well…”
And Galan hadn’t compared very favorably, Jaine thought.
“On second thought,” T.J. said very quietly, “I’m not going to turn off the phones. If it’s going to happen, I’d rather just get it over with.”
After she hung up, Jaine hurried to finish getting ready. The quick phone call hadn’t taken long, and the television commercials were just ending. The newscaster’s perky voice made her flinch.
“Four area women have gone public with their list of requirements for the perfect man …”
Three minutes later, Jaine closed her eyes and sagged weakly against the vanity. Three minutes! Three minutes was an eternity of airtime. Of all the days for there to be no shootings or accidents blocking the freeways or a war, a famine—anything to keep such an insignificant story off the air!
The news story had stopped short of the raunchy requirements, but made sure the viewers knew they could get the List, as it was being called, and the accompanying article, in their entirety, on the station’s Web site. Women and men had been interviewed for their reaction to items on the List. Everyone seemed to agree with the first five requirements, but after that opinions began to vary widely—usually with women taking one view and men the other.
Maybe if she took a week’s vacation, starting immediately, this would all have blown over by the time she got back from Outer Mongolia.
But that would be the coward’s way out. If T.J. needed supporting, Jaine knew she had to be there for her. Marci could also be facing the end of a relationship, but in Jaine’s opinion, losing Brickhead wouldn’t be much of a loss, and besides, Marci deserved some flack for spilling this whole thing to Dawna in the first place.
With dread weighting down her every step, she forced herself out to the car. As she unlocked it, she heard a door open behind her and automatically glanced over her shoulder. For a moment she stared blankly at Sam as he turned to lock his kitchen door; then memory came roaring back, and in panic she fumbled with the door handle.
Nothing like a little notoriety to make a woman forget she wanted to avoid a certain man, she thought savagely. Had he been watching for her?
“Are you feeling better today?” he asked as he strolled up.
“Fine.” She half-tossed her purse into the passenger seat and slid under the wheel.
“Don’t put it there,” he advised. “When you stop at traffic lights, anyone can come up, pop the window, grab the purse, and be gone before you know what’s happening.”
She grabbed her sunglasses and slid them on, pathetically grateful for the protection they gave her as she dared to glance at him. “Where should I put it, then?”
“In the trunk is the safest place.”
“That isn’t very convenient.”
He shrugged. The movement made her notice how broad his shoulders were, and that reminded her of other parts of his body. Heat began to build in her cheeks. Why couldn’t he have been a drunk? Why wasn’t he still wearing sweatpants and a stained, torn T-shirt, instead of oatmeal slacks and a midnight blue silk shirt? A cream-and-blue-and-crimson tie was knotted loosely at his strong throat, and he carried a jacket in one hand. That big black pistol rested in a holster against his right kidney. He looked tough and competent, and way too good for her peace of mind.
“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you this morning,” he said. “I was still half-asleep and wasn’t paying attention to the windows.”
She managed a nonchalant shrug. “I wasn’t embarrassed. Accidents happen.” She wanted to leave, but he was standing so close she couldn’t shut the door.
He hunkered down in the V formed by the car and the open door. “Are you sure you’re okay? You haven’t insulted me yet, and we’ve been talking”—he glanced at his watch—“about thirty seconds already.”
“I’m in a mellow mood,” she said flatly. “I’m saving my energy in case something important comes along.”
He grinned. “That’s my girl. I feel better now.” He reached out and lightly touched her cheekbone. “The bruise is gone.”
“No, it isn’t. Makeup is a wonderful thing.”
“So it is.” His finger trailed down to the dent in her chin and lightly tapped it before withdrawing. Jaine sat frozen, ambushed by the abrupt realization that he was flirting with her, for God’s sake, and her heart was doing that sledgehammer thing again.
Oh, boy.
“Don’t kiss me,” she said warningly, because he seemed somehow closer, though she hadn’t seen him move, and his gaze was centered on her face in that intent look men get before they make their move.
“I don’t intend to,” he replied, smiling a little. “I don’t have my whip and chair with me.” He stood up and stepped back, his hand on the car door to close it. He paused, looking down at her. “Besides, I don’t have time right now. We both have to get to work, and I don’t like rush jobs. I’ll need a couple of hours, at least.”
