Out on a Limb Page 5

  She raised an eyebrow. "I hope someone is using them."

  "One of the guys on my coding team." Like most things lately, he was less resentful when he didn't acknowledge what he was missing. Each time he gave his tickets away, he experienced a sense of pride—that he had amazing seats to give—that the recipient was always so appreciative. That he had money enough to buy any seat in the house. And each time, he resented the fact that he couldn't use them himself. That his life—as fortunate as it was—seemed to be slipping from his grasp.

  Today, in the odd mood he found himself in, the State game became the one thing Travis didn't want to miss. Carving out time to watch it tonight would be worth forgoing his nap and working this afternoon.

  "Starts at seven," she confirmed. "My Saturday evening will consist of shouting nasty comments at the TV." She lifted her gaze to his. "And eating too much chili."

  The visual of MaryJo, hair slung up in a ponytail, swigging beer and yelling insults over a basketball game had him chuckling. "That sounds awesome."

  "My chili can be legendary." A frown notched her smooth skin. "Trouble is, I'm undisciplined," she confessed.

  "What do you mean?" At that moment, the thought of anything undisciplined sounded like nirvana.

  "I tend to go off-recipe-" Her sigh suggested a knowledge of herself she wasn't afraid to admit. "When my chili turns out great—I can never replicate it." Concentrating on the street signs, she missed his smile. "It's the second one on the left," she pointed out.

  "Sort of like—adventures in chili?" Travis experienced a pang of disappointment as he pulled into her driveway. His life was seriously lacking if sitting in his car with a girl and her cat was preferable to returning home to his empty house. "What's your average?"

  "Good to bad?" MaryJo actually seemed to ponder his question, teeth working her bottom lip as she did the math. "I'd say . . . 84% good."

  "84?" Travis stared at her, unable to prevent the smile twitching his lips. "You've analyzed this?"

  "I'm being a little modest since I don't know you well," she admitted. "But the regression analysis suggests my good to bad ratio is probably more like 86%."

  Invite me. Please. Eagerness flooded him, so palpable, Travis assumed it was written on his face. Let me watch with you.

  Suddenly unable to meet his gaze, MaryJo hesitated. "You—probably already have plans, but . . . if you don’t—I- you . . . could . . .watch the game with me?"

  Hell, yes. A surge of inexplicable happiness shot through him. Was it the girl? The game? The knowledge he wouldn't be alone tonight? His pulse quickened with anticipation. "I’d love to watch the game." He smiled. "I'll want to see those numbers on your chili."

  She choked on her laughter. "Of course."

  He startled at the low moan emanating from the back seat. Quite possibly, Jack had reached his limit. "One other concern-" He paused. "Is how you’re going to react when your team loses. You've indicated a tendency toward violence."

  Shyness forgotten, MaryJo's toffee eyes narrowed. "I've been known to accidentally-" She air quoted- "spill screamin' hot chili on a rival guest. But—I don’t think that will be necessary this evening." Eyes gleaming, she returned fire. "What sort of behavior can I expect when your team eats it tonight?"

  "I believe I’m capable of sportsmanlike behavior." Jack's plaintive yowl interrupted them. They both glanced back at him. From Travis' perspective, the yellow-eyed glare suggested his luck might be about to run out. So far, no bodily fluids and no puncture marks in his upholstery, though Jack had puffed up to nearly twice his normal size.

  "I'd better get him inside." Her expression reluctant, she opened the door.

  Staring at MaryJo, her creamy skin flushed pink, gold-tinged eyes flashing at him, Travis experienced a moment of intense longing. He wanted to pull her across the seat. He wanted to mold the back of her head with his hands. Feel the long, silky strands sift through his fingers. He wanted to watch her eyes widen; hear her breath catch, right before he kissed the hell out of her.

  Perhaps this was exactly what he needed. A normal evening—with a girl like MaryJo. Easygoing. Undemanding. Someone he could hang out with and relax. Just be himself—not talk about work deadlines or his company or his problems. They could simply enjoy watching the game. His chest felt lighter—something he hadn’t experienced in months. Maybe longer. If he was still caught in the strange compulsion to toss aside his deadlines, it was possible his 'perfect gentleman' promise might fly out the window tonight, too.

  "Okay, may the best team win," she reminded. Scooping up the now spitting Jack, MaryJo clutched him to her chest. "Chili at six-thirty. Death match at seven."

  Chapter 4

  Dear Lord. What had she been thinking? Leaning back against the door, her heartbeat ricocheting against her ribcage, MaryJo struggled to right her panicked breathing. What had she been thinking? She'd invited Travis to her home. For chili? And a college basketball game? What else could she possibly throw in to make it the dorkiest evening of his life? "A chess match during half-time?" No—a review of her photo albums. How about a scrapbooking session? That would seal it.

  "God, Mariela—you're an idiot." Where was Saint Simeon when she truly needed him? She needed guidance before making a fool of herself. She needed him to be the voice in her head—who stopped her from blurting invitations to seriously out-of-her-league guys. "That's when I need help." Muttering as though someone was actually listening, she drifted into the kitchen. Before. Before she opened her mouth.

  "He was being polite," she muttered. Travis wanted to spend time with her—like he'd wanted Jack clawing holes in the leather upholstery in his expensive car. Or shedding cat hair through his perfect, designer home. "Now, you've cornered him into spending his Saturday night with you?" Releasing a nervous breath, she set a squirming Jack to the floor. "Go find Danielle," she urged. The damage was done. All she could do now was make the best of it.

  Isabella had promised— that Simeon would always protect her. Mostly, from herself. Because she'd been dying, her mother had tried to prepare MaryJo for her departure. But, at ten years old, MaryJo hadn't wanted preparation. She'd been desperate for reassurance. That her life wasn't about to catastrophically change.

  She'd wanted to know someone would still be watching over her. Someone beyond her perpetually cranky, no-nonsense, uber cop father. Recognizing her daughter's unruly, rebellious nature, Isabella had coached MaryJo on the importance of tempering her enthusiasm. Had she lived, Isabella might have successfully schooled it from her. Instead, she'd left MaryJo the promise of an elusive saint—who was supposed to stand in her mother's place.

  Her ringing cell phone forced a temporary halt to panicking thoughts. "Hey, Dad. What's up?" Speaking of no-nonsense cop- It was ironic that she—scatterbrained MaryJo, was actually able to assist her dad with his caseload at the investigation agency he ran with a few partners who'd been buddies on the force.

  "Mojo—can you work Tuesday night?"

  "Tuesday?" She stalled. Not being forced to explain how she came by her shiner would be a plus. That gave her three days for the bruises to heal. Since some of his cases proved to be physically challenging, it would be nice not to show up limping and groaning with every move. "Sure, I can make it," she decided. "Where do you need me?"

  Grabbing a pen from the counter, she jotted the directions he barked at her. Sometimes they met at his warehouse office, but other times he preferred she show up at the stakeout site. MaryJo never knew for sure what type of situation she'd find herself in. "Is this our regular Tuesday night stakeout or should I bring my computer stuff?" Stuff being the euphemism they used for her hacking gear. Her dad's company was a typical detective agency—working divorces and embezzlement and fraud cases and atypical—a secretive, sometimes-operates-outside-the-law sort of agency. The typical cases served as cover for the shadowy cases he took on for corporate clients. Government agencies. Or sometimes—actual governments. Not that Sean talked much about those.
/>
  "Stakeout," her father's gravelly voice confirmed. Sometimes, Sean required her skills at breaking into systems. Usually, her hacking skills were deployed for good—finding the weak spots in a system—before someone else did. She was skilled at assessing weaknesses, finding flaws and locking the back doors she found. But occasionally, she was asked to bust in—to retrieve data for her father's shadowy netherworld clients. On those occasions, she trusted her father knew exactly what he was getting into. He was the most ethical, honest person she'd ever known. He would never engage a client he hadn't researched thoroughly. Consequently, MaryJo didn't worry much about what her father was involved in. She was strictly part-time.

  "How long do you think it'll be?" Surveillance could last well into the night. She'd have to pack dinner—to be eaten in the cramped quarters of her car.

  "The usual," he confirmed. "You might be done by midnight. Maybe one." He covered the phone for a moment. "Hang on, Mads wants to talk to you."

  "Okay, Dad. Love you. See you Tuesday." Despite his daunting personality, they'd made strides in their relationship. His girlfriend, Madeline deserved most of the credit for their success. In three short years, Maddie had worked wonders, smoothing over her father's prickliness.

  "Mariela? Can you come for dinner tomorrow?"

  She pictured her father's perfectly coifed girlfriend, likely drumming beautifully manicured nails on the kitchen island. Glancing at her own, she winced. Sometimes, she wished her dad had discovered Maddie earlier. . . when her mothering could have benefited her as well. All those years, she'd prayed for a woman to enter their lives—to soften it. To sand down her father's rough, splintery edges. But, if there'd been women in Sean's life over those years, he'd hidden them—probably believing he was doing her a favor—by not reminding MaryJo of the giant hole in her life.

  "I was going to run into work for a couple hours." Mentally, she planned her week. The division financials were due in two weeks.

  "We could do a little shopping . . ."

  "I really don't need anything." Like that excuse would work. Shopping was not a pastime for Madeline Stanhope. It was pure blood sport. And it had been quite some time since MaryJo had indulged her. The trouble was—most of it went over her head. What colors looked good? What looked terrible? For ten formative years, she'd been raised by a Spartan. By default, she'd become one herself.

  Her father hadn't known what to do with a grief-stricken ten-year-old girl. Overwhelmed by his own loss, he'd fallen back on his military training. Disciplined behavior. Rigid, unbending schedules posted to the wall. Adherence to order. Sean handled his daughter the way he tackled all of life's chores after Isabella's death. Businesslike. Working from a list. As though MaryJo was the forgotten gallon of milk he had to drive back to the grocery store to retrieve. MoJo needs sneakers. Take her to the mall. Check. MoJo has a cold. Take her to the doctor. Check. MoJo's sulky because the cute guy in algebra class teased her. Order her to not be stupid. Check.

  "Sweetheart, can't work wait? I have someone I'd like you to meet." Madeline's voice scattered her rambling thoughts.

  "Aha—that's why you wanted to take me shopping," she deduced, the light bulb going off. "Because I need to impress someone." Because you look like an unmade bed.

  Without a mom for guidance, pre-teen MaryJo had likely given off a vibe of desperation. Her friends' moms, sensing the void in her life, had taken her under their wings. Janie's mom had taught her to cook and read recipes. Samantha's mom introduced her to sewing—enough to fix a tear for her father or stitch a hem for herself.

  Those years had been the loneliest of her life—the only bright spots being her friends—in their homes. Homes that always smelled good—like cookies or perfume or fabric softener. There was always something cooking. Her friends' lunchboxes held homemade treats, unlike the utilitarian, bought-in-bulk snacks she carried. Each time she walked into a potential new friend's house, MaryJo experienced the same thrill of anticipation she felt at Christmas. And like Christmas, it didn't take long for the letdown to set in.

  When her father took the time to follow her excruciatingly detailed Christmas list, he'd invariably bought the wrong size or color. Most years, Sean would wait until the last minute, then discover nothing on his daughter's list was still available. MaryJo was guilty of the same sin. Instead of taking the time to properly develop friendships, she was more interested in their moms. Eventually, the friends caught on—leading to her becoming known as the weird girl no one wanted to invite home.

  "Maddie, I love you, but I don't need to impress a man." She softened her stance. "I do love shopping with you, though."

  "A new dress is for you, not the man," she insisted. "To feel incredible. The bonus is that it signals a suitor that you're confident. Ready to meet someone."

  She cracked up. A suitor? More like a jerk in a suit who'd buy her a seven dollar glass of wine and assume that bought him a few hours in her bed. Alyssa had been right. After Madeline had married her friend off to Teagan, Lyss had warned MaryJo she was next on the list. "But—I'm not confident, Maddie. I'm not ready to meet someone."

  "He's an accountant, darling." As though realizing her words didn't exactly sell the idea, Maddie paused. "Not—you know—a typical accountant. He's very attractive."

  MaryJo brushed hair from her eyes, hitting her bruise. Yeah—that would be perfect. Show up with a black eye to meet another accountant. "I think I'd better take a rain check this weekend. I really need three or four hours in the office tomorrow." She crossed her fingers. "But, how about next Sunday?"

  After she hung up, Danielle's yowl for attention cleared her distracted brain. The tabby's mournful expression hastened her move to the cabinet. "Sorry, girl. I'm sure you're starving. But—at least you were warm and safe last night. Did Jack tell you what happened to us?"

  After scooping food into her bowl, MaryJo limped to the coffeemaker. For all she needed to accomplish today, she’d require serious caffeine. And a long, hot soak in the tub to rid her of the aches she experienced every time she moved. Then, she'd head to the grocery store and start putting together her chili. Carefully, this time. Following the recipe to the letter. Because this batch had to be edible. If the gods were smiling, her chili would be fantastic. Not that she harbored any illusions over the gorgeous Travis.

  With a rather uncomfortable level of certainty, MaryJo suspected she would not escape Travis without embarrassing herself one last time. Her spur of the moment invitation meant she'd be on guard tonight. Any number of mishaps awaited. She could ruin the chili. She could spill it all over herself. Or him. She'd dump hot chili on the sexiest guy she'd ever actually spoken to. "You could say something stupid," she added to the list. Dragging in several cleansing breaths, she forced calm to descend. It was too late for damage control. She'd just have to stumble through it—without poisoning Travis. Or acting like a sports-crazed maniac. Without swearing. Or shouting. Or spilling.

  No, she wouldn't ask the gods for an amazing evening. "Face it, MaryJo—amazing is out of reach." Lost in her fantasy, amazing would be Travis staring into her eyes and falling head over heels. For her or the chili- He'd take her in those strong arms and kiss her senseless. "Little dreams, Mariela," she counseled herself. "Little dreams." She would leave amazing for the beautiful, bold, confident women. MaryJo would aim for trouble-free. Travis would actually show up. He would eat her chili and not get sick from it. Maybe—he'd even like it. Then, he'd enjoy watching the game with the friendly, toned-down, polite, non-swearing trespasser who'd fallen from his tree. They'd overlook the part where she'd ended up naked in his shower. For a change—she wouldn't be dressed like a bag lady. They'd chat amiably about their work and sports and—the weather. At the end of the evening, Travis would leave—mildly appreciative of her company. And she'd return to her quiet, settled life—able to wave casually if she bumped into him at the market.

  Releasing a slow sigh of relief, she wandered to the cabinet and pulled down her favorite mug. As
her kitchen filled with the scent of freshly brewed coffee, a sense of calm settled over her. She had a game plan. It was a good start.

  "IF YOU KNOW WHERE I am in the beta, why are we having this conversation?" Travis held his patience, but only barely. On top of Patrice dragging him in to the office on a Saturday afternoon, her blond head was currently invading his space, crowding next to his to view his laptop. Her heavy-handed, overly exotic perfume choking off the oxygen to his brain. But—not in a good way. "You've obviously been monitoring my progress, so why am I here?"

  "Because progress is not the word I would use here." Her gaze shifted from the screen, sharp, blue eyes focusing on him. "I don't know why we keep having this conversation, Travis." Impatient nails tapped his desk. "When you work on your own, you can do whatever you want. But, I'm your partner. I'm as much at risk in this release as you. Therefore, you don't get to do whatever the hell you want. You answer to me."

  "Answer to you? Patrice, I took you on as a favor." Impatient to breathe clean air, Travis pushed back from the desk. "If you recall, in exchange for a share in the profits, you were supposed to make my life easier."

  "And haven't I done that?" A winged brow lifted artlessly. "Have you done one interview? Has the press bothered you? Have you had to sign a check?"

  Resisting the urge to squirm in his chair, Travis knew she violated his space deliberately. Everything with Patrice was a power struggle. Even her cloying scent was on the attack, invading his lungs and giving him a headache. "You know what I mean. I was supposed to have time to develop the team. . . to work on my own stuff—to have some creative time."

  "I'm not the one who turned down the buyout offer, Travis," she chided, her tone light, but her meaning unmistakable. "If you'd accepted Omni's buyout, we'd all be sitting pretty. You, me, Charles. You'd have all the time in the world to play your little games, build your worlds. . . whatever it is you seem to want to waste time doing."