The Road To Echo Point. Carrie Weaver
grew with each stroke of the dog’s coat.
“You’re a lovely girl, aren’t you.”
The pink tongue bathed her wrist.
“You know, girl, it was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
The big, brown eyes gazed up at her, as if she were the most important person on earth.
“And I don’t really think Daisy is as big a pain in the butt as I did at first. She just kind of freaks me out. Never knowing what she’ll do. And that’s a lot of responsibility. Ian says he trusts me, but he doesn’t know me. I can’t even keep a houseplant alive, let alone a confused old woman.”
Vi stroked Annabelle’s head and worked her way down her soft, silky back. She really was beautiful. Her hind leg was in a cast, but healing nicely according to the vet.
“And you know what, Annabelle? The woman insists on calling me Violet. I don’t want to be Violet. Violet, as in shrinking Violet. As in, let-people-walk-all-over-her Violet. And run-and-hide Violet….”
Annabelle whined, stretching up to lick Vi’s chin.
“I didn’t mean to upset you. I promise I’ll help you get better. That way you can have your job back, and I can have mine. Sound like a plan?”
She nodded for the dog. Of course it was a good plan. Next time she went to Phoenix for more files, she’d stop off at the library and do some research on fractures. It would right a wrong, good karma and all that. And it would get her out of this mixed-up place where up was down and night was day.
IAN STOOD IN THE DOORWAY, watching Vi and Annabelle. The woman held the dog’s head in her lap, talking softly, so softly he had to lean forward to hear.
Remorse? And tenderness. And something missing, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Confidence. That cocky attitude.
Guilt, or the power bar, twisted his gut. It was okay to use her when he thought she was a heartless witch. But now she looked relaxed and very unwitchlike.
Her tender murmurs grated on his nerves. Ian didn’t want to hear anymore. He didn’t need to feel bad about disrupting her life.
He cleared his throat.
Vi’s head came up. Their eyes met for a minute, before she looked away. What he’d seen there made him curse under his breath. Confusion. And fear. Beneath that tough-as-nails stuff was a woman hiding from something. A woman who didn’t expect much from people. But with the dog, she’d let down her guard. Let out all that vulnerability. And dammit, he’d had to witness it.
“I was checking on Annabelle. Making sure she was okay.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Short run.” She raised an eyebrow.
Ian tried to convince himself he wasn’t seeing her any differently, but he was. “I don’t like being gone long. Force of habit. Besides, I’ve got a lot to do.”
He watched her pry Annabelle’s head off her lap, careful not to disturb the snoring dog. She rose so smoothly the dog didn’t even twitch.
“What exactly do you do?” she asked.
“Write. Kind of an action, mystery type thing.”
His shoulders tensed as he waited for the look. That surprised look. Sure enough, there it was. Then she eyed him up and down, before letting her gaze stop at his face.
The silence lengthened. He let it go on and on, until he couldn’t stand it anymore.
“I was an English Lit major. That was right after I quit dragging my knuckles and figured out those darn opposable thumbs.”
A flush crept up her neck. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.
“Don’t bother denying it. You’re not the first to make that assumption.”
Her flush deepened, worked its way up her face. Amazing that her smooth, olive-toned skin could get that red. A few more twists in the breeze and he’d let her off the hook.
“Of course, those assumptions come in handy at times. Like when I helped out in Daisy’s dance studio. At first I was drafted against my will, but when I got a look at all those ballerinas in leotards, I learned a whole new appreciation for dance. The dumb jock thing was what kept me from being severely beaten on a daily basis. I learned to compensate.”
The expression on her face was priceless, well worth the soul-baring. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened. “Ballet? You?”
“You got it. I was pretty good, too. Better quarterback though, much to Dad’s relief.”
Vi let the rest of Ian’s disclosure wash over her without registering. It was the only way she could keep her sleep-deprived brain cells from overloading completely.
This guy was a real trip. He’d developed the ultimate line. Not just a hard body, he was a renaissance man—intelligent, gifted and cultured, all rolled into one package. The average woman would buy it hook, line and sinker.
“How about antiques, what do you think of those?” she quizzed.
“I can take ’em or leave ’em.” He grinned, an amused half smile that lit his eyes. “I don’t enjoy show tunes, either. Never patted another guy on the butt, on or off the football field. ‘Good game’ worked just as well.”
Okay, so he was an interesting paradox and liked women. But she had one ace up her sleeve, one that couldn’t be conned or forced. Chemistry.
Vi let her gaze roam, from the barrel chest to biceps nearly the size of her thigh. Sweat made a damp V on the front of his T-shirt, highlighting some impressive pecs. Slim hips, muscular thighs. Toned calves. Probably even muscular feet. But it didn’t matter. Not an ounce of chemistry.
None. Zip. Zilch. Nada.
Now a guy in a crisp, blindingly white dress shirt, Armani suit, cuff links, that might be another matter.
She crossed her arms and smiled. “I’m sure Daisy’d be very glad to hear that. I imagine she wants grandchildren—most mothers do.” It was good to be in control again. Another three weeks or less and she’d walk out of here the way she’d arrived, in control and knowing where she was headed.
“Nah, she never says. Wants me to be happy, that’s all. Demanding old broad, isn’t she?”
“Not unless you mind finger foods or stand down wind of her on a bad day.”
“Hey, that’s not fair. You ought to try getting her in a bathtub.”
“No thanks. Not in my job description.”
“No, I guess not. I didn’t think it would be in mine, either. But it’s the Alzheimer’s. If you’d known her before… Well, she was quite a woman.”
“I’m sure she was.” Vi placed her hand on his forearm, then let it drop to her side.
The Daisy who had danced, fallen in love, painted—all of it was slipping away and there was nothing Ian could do. It must tear him up. But not her problem. If she kept reminding herself of that, she’d be okay.
“I’ve got some books about it. Alzheimer’s. If you’re interested?”
She edged toward the door. “No thanks. No time,” she shot over her shoulder, making her escape. There was no way she’d admit to the exhaustive Web search she’d made. Or the compulsion she felt to learn what made Daisy tick. And she definitely would not admit to wanting to make Ian’s life a little easier.
IF THE WOMAN didn’t shut up, Vi was going to wrap her hands around her wrinkly little turkey neck and squeeze the living daylights out of her. It wasn’t fair. The lady’d had more adventures than one person had a right to. Sitting next to her, Vi felt like a mere imitation of a woman.
She