Trouble In Tourmaline

Her gaze drifted over him and she hesitated for a long moment. “Is there a good place in town to get a sandwich and a cold drink?”

From out of town, then. Gert had quite a few patients who were. He hadn’t heard a car drive up earlier, so he glanced around, noticing a blue SUV parked so closely behind the nursery truck that he wasn’t sure they weren’t touching.

“The best place is hard to find,” he said more gruffly than he intended, still wondering whether she had, in fact, hit the back of his truck.

“I can follow directions.” Her tart tone amused him, snapping her back into focus.

“This is a well hidden hole-in-the-wall. Easier to walk there from here than drive.”

“I’m capable of walking.” This time her words held a definite edge, which, for some reason, made him ignore his uneasiness at being attracted to her.

“Easier to show you than tell you,” he said.

Amy Simon eyed the dark-haired man uncertainly as he grabbed a T-shirt from the porch railing and yanked it over his head. In the back of her mind she thought it was a shame to cover that muscular torso glistening with droplets of water. Definitely a hunk. No wonder she’d been momentarily attracted—any woman would have been—until his brusque manner turned her off. Now he was practically ordering her to go with him to wherever the hole-in-the-wall was, something she didn’t care for, either. It reminded her unpleasantly of the psychologist who’d been monitoring her in L.A. Her grandmother would have called Dr. Smits a little tin god on wheels. Smits was a good part of the reason she’d opted to answer Dr. Severin’s ad for a psychologist.

But this guy wasn’t Smits, and she was hungry and thirsty. A walk would do her good after the drive over here from her brother’s horse ranch in Carson Valley, where she’d spent the night. “Thank you,” she said finally. Hoping to pry a name out of him, she added, “I’m Amy, by the way.”

“David,” he told her, and started down the sidewalk, away from where her car was parked.

She followed, hurrying to keep up with him. David? She’d have thought a yard maintenance worker would go by something more macho, like Dave. Immediately she made a face. Shame on her, that was stereotyping, something she’d thought all those psych courses had taught her not to do.

He strode along without talking. Strong silent type? More than likely he had nothing intelligent to say. Oops, more typecasting. Why did she keep downgrading the guy? Could it be because she didn’t want to acknowledge that he turned her on? But that would make her a snob, wouldn’t it? Deciding conversation would dispel such disturbing thoughts, Amy cleared her throat and asked, “Did you grow up in Tourmaline?”

“No.”

“Nevada?”

“No.”

Tamping down exasperation, she persisted. “Where, then?”

“New Mexico.”

End of conversation, as far as he was concerned, apparently. She lost count of the corners they’d turned when he finally stopped, turned and looked at her. His eyes, she noted, were as dark a blue as she’d ever seen. They revealed nothing.

“Why?” he asked.

She blinked, finally understanding he must mean why did she want to know where he grew up. “I was just making small talk,” she muttered.

“This is it.” He gestured toward a green door. The sign over it read Tiny Tim’s. Opening the door, he waved her in ahead of him.

Four minuscule tables were crowded into the small space inside. When they were seated at number two, the only empty one, David said, “Your turn.”

To do what? Order? Talk? She shrugged.

“What state?” he asked.

Oh, where had she grown up. “Michigan,” she told him.

“Not a real good way to start a conversation,” he said.

“Whatcha having?” a gruff voice asked.

Turning her head, she saw a bald man’s head framed in an open hatch on the side wall.

“Got a special, Tim?” David asked.

“Egg salad with alfalfa sprouts, mustard and pickle on rye.”

David glanced at her and she nodded. It sounded sort of weird, but so was the day, so far. “Root beer’s good, they make it locally,” he added.

Not what she’d usually order, but she decided to go with the flow. “Okay.”

Tim’s head disappeared from view.

“So what is your idea of a good conversation starter?” she asked David, trying to ignore how really small their table was. It was impossible to move without her feet or legs brushing against his, each touch heightening her awareness of the sizzle arcing between them.

David looked across the table into her green eyes. Murdock, the senior partner of the law firm he used to be with, had green eyes. Murdock’s were a murky color, though, like his manipulations had turned out to be. Amy’s eyes were clear and filled with light, enhancing her heart-shaped face. No doubt about it, she was the prettiest woman he’d seen in a long time, with a lower lip that begged for… He forced his gaze away, telling himself he wasn’t going down that road. Even if the air between them was all but crackling with electricity.

What had she asked him? Before he could bring it to mind, she spoke. “I’ve never been in favor of starting out by asking what someone does for a living. The emphasis then tends to be on what you do rather than what you’re like.”

“Fine with me. So what do you think I’m like?”

“You’re supposed to tell me.”

He shook his head.

“Table two, yours is ready,” Tim said from the open hatch.

David rose, retrieved the tray from the shelf below the hatch, brought it back to the table and served them both, then slid the tray back onto the counter.

He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed and swallowed, washing it down with a slug of root beer. “I always figured people show enough of what they’re like, so you get clues,” he said. “Take you—I already know you don’t live in Tourmaline and that you’re an honest Midwesterner.”

Amy’s laugh was unexpectedly deep, charming him against his will. “Where’d you get the idea Midwesterners were more honest than anyone else?”

“From TV, where else?”

She rolled her eyes. “All right, then, from clues I know you’re either a landscaper or that you work for one. But I certainly have no notion of whether New Mexicans are more or less honest that Midwesterners.”

With Murdock in mind, his “Definitely less” came out tinged with bitterness, which vanished when the rest of what she’d said filtered in. This woman thought he was Gert’s yardman? He half smiled. Wasn’t she right in a sense? He hadn’t done any kind of work in more than a year other than mowing his aunt’s lawn and keeping the shrubs trimmed and the weeds under control. Why not play the part? Besides, he could use a little fun in his life.

Without saying one way or the other whether Amy was right or wrong, David finished his sandwich and drink. Since she was through eating at about the same time, he gathered she really had been hungry.

“You know, that weird sandwich wasn’t bad,” she told him. “And I haven’t had root beer in years. Thanks for letting me know about this place.” She reached into her purse and removed a wallet.

David quelled his impulse to offer to pay for hers as well as his, deciding that Aunt Gert’s yardman wouldn’t. Dutch it’d be. He thought of Cal, the worker who’d helped him load the shrubs at the nursery. Though he didn’t own a baseball cap, he could adopt Cal’s swagger and mannerisms.

“Rather have a beer,” he told Amy, getting out his own wallet, “but Tim doesn’t sell the stuff.”