“You know. It’s a work obligation.” His calendar bulged with them. In a convention town that was also home to major league sports teams and that hosted big-name golf tournaments, as well as big-star rock concerts, McMillan & Milano’s services were in constant demand. “The company’s in charge of security for the Street Beat festival three weeks from now and I’ve got to put in an appearance and do the good ol’ grip-and-grin for at least a few minutes.”
Fewer than few, if he could get away with it. If Lucy Sutton had rattled him, not only a family friend but a man known as Mr. Keep-It-Light-and-Loose, what effect might she have on males who were actively prowling?
He shook his head. She was heading for trouble, all right.
Flipping his car’s signal indicator, he turned right into the driveway of a well-maintained two-story, his gaze noting that the landscaping crew was keeping the hedges manicured and the lawns fertilized per his orders. The porch light added a cheery brightness to the entry, complete with a wreath of dried fall foliage on the front door.
“Come in with me,” he suggested to Lucy. “You’ve met Germaine McMillan before, haven’t you? I said I’d stop by and take care of a minor repair for her.”
Again, he kept his eyes off Lucy’s legs as she exited the car. But he couldn’t keep her light scent away from his nose as they waited for Germaine to answer the ringing doorbell. The fragrance had caught his attention in the break room at the office, too, and remembering that brought back that quick flash he’d had of her plump, pretty breasts rising from the white lace cups of her bra.
To distract himself from the memory, he ran his hand over the molding around the doorjamb. Good. The paint was tight.
For some damn reason, so the hell were the muscles south of his waistline.
He could have kissed Germaine for choosing that instant to open the door. Actually, he did kiss her, an obligatory peck on her soft cheek that dimpled as he moved away and brought his companion forward.
“Do you remember Lucy Sutton?” he asked his partner’s widow. “I’m sure you’ve met her before, as well as various other members of the Sutton family over the years.”
“Of course!” Germaine appeared delighted by the company, which was part of the reason why he’d scheduled the stop. Like the landscaping, he could have hired out the minor repair. But without children or grandchildren of her own, Carlo knew the older woman enjoyed his visits. Just as he’d felt obligated to keep Patrick McMillan’s name as part of the security firm the two of them had dreamed up before Pat’s death, Carlo felt obligated to be the family Germaine didn’t have. “Can I get you two some coffee and dessert?” she asked.
They followed her into the immaculate living room, where fresh vacuum trails showed clearly on the cream carpet. “Nothing for me, thanks,” Lucy replied. “We’re on our way to a party.”
Germaine sat down on the floral couch and Lucy followed suit. “I shouldn’t be keeping the pair of you, then.”
Carlo waved his hand. “There’s no rush. We have plenty of time. The party’s bound to be boring, anyway.” And Lucy would be a whole lot easier to watch over among the flower fields that were Germaine’s upholstered furniture than she would be at a party filled with rock musicians, businessmen and media types.
“Oh, you,” Germaine scolded. “A man your age should enjoy a little nightlife.”
Lucy leaned toward her. “We’re not even there yet and he’s already grumping about the music being too loud. Who knew what a fuddy-duddy he’d turn out to be?”
“Fuddy-duddy?” He frowned at her. Fuddy-duddy? For some reason the teasing jab ignited his usually cool temper. “Is that what you think? But coming from someone dressed in nothing more than a scanty pair of handkerchiefs, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Lucy’s spine straightened. She looked a little bit insulted, too. “Handkerchiefs? I’ll have you know this dress is—”
“Outrageous?” Fuddy-duddy. He couldn’t get the insult out of his mind. “An invitation to pneumonia?”
Her berry-colored mouth fell open and her blue, blue eyes narrowed. “You’re—”
“Children, children,” Germaine interrupted, her voice verging on laughter. “Maybe we should change the subject.”
“You’re right.” Annoyed by his own out-of-character reaction to Lucy’s silly jibes, Carlo shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ll do better than that and in fact change the washers of the dripping faucet like I said I would.”
Germaine started to rise, but he shook his head. “I know where I’m going and I know where you keep Pat’s tools.”
He couldn’t exit the living room fast enough. If he didn’t already know that Lucy had potential to be a snag in the smooth path of his planned evening, that last exchange would have been proof positive. How the hell had she gotten under his skin so fast?
Fuddy-duddy. Grumping. Good God, he didn’t grump. How ridiculous.
But damn, if the descriptions hadn’t rankled.
Passing the hall portrait of his late partner on the way to the dripping bathroom faucet, Carlo felt his mood dip even lower. As he tinkered, he thought of Pat’s stocky frame and square, capable hands. The man should be here, Carlo thought on a sudden stab of sadness. Pat should be here, working out of his own red toolbox while looking forward to an evening of yet another TV documentary on military history, as well as a slice of his wife’s famous mocha cheesecake.
Instead, Carlo’s partner was gone.
Gone forever.
Upon completion of the repair, his footsteps were as heavy as his frame of mind as he returned to the living room. Hesitating at the archway, he listened to Germaine’s amused voice.
“Then he turned the corner as fast as his old legs could go, wheezing, he said, sure that he’d lost the suspect, only to find the teenager caught on a cyclone fence, hanging upside down by his own oversize trousers.”
Carlo remembered the moment as if it were yesterday and he couldn’t resist adding to the story. “His own oversize trousers that had fallen down to his ankles, leaving his, uh, assets flapping in the breeze.” Coming farther into the room, he couldn’t help but grin at the memory. “Pat picked up the fancy cell phone that had fallen out of the boy’s pocket and took a picture for posterity, while the dumb kid yammered on and on about police brutality.”
He laughed. “Pat told him the only brutal thing about the event was his having to be subjected to a view of the kid’s skinny butt.” Laughing again, he recalled the expression of insulted outrage on the perp’s upside-down face.
“Oh, Carlo.”
The odd note in Germaine’s voice zeroed his gaze in on her. “What?”
She smiled. “It’s good to hear you laugh. It’s good that we can remember my Pat with lightness in our hearts. He’d want that.”
Carlo felt the smile he was wearing die as yet another pang of sadness sliced through him. All that Pat had wanted was to grow old with his beloved wife. Just a few relaxed and peaceful years of happily-ever-after.
He turned away, embarrassed by his sudden grief and just as determined to hide it. His hand speared through his hair and he cleared his throat. “Anything else I can do for you, Germaine?” His voice still sounded thick.
“No, but, Carlo…” Germaine’s own suddenly teary voice filled with a sympathy he couldn’t handle, yet couldn’t run away from, either. Without looking at her, he sensed her rising and he steeled himself, desperate not to be weakened by any more emotion.
But then Lucy was there first, her hand looping around his arm. “Well, then I think we should