Renegade. Kaitlyn Rice
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been next door neighbors.
Her behavior this weekend had been flighty, at best. She kept imagining what scintillating thing she might say to Riley, even though she had no intention of speaking to him again. It was as if all those years hadn’t passed at all, and she was still a teenager harboring a crush on the boy next door.
Except her imagination had grown up. Instead of substituting herself as the recipient of his kisses down by the train trestle, she was picturing entire weekends spent in bed with him. Heaven knew where Hannah would be during all these misbegotten fantasies.
But Tracy lived in the real world, and Hannah was fine right where she was—at her side.
The little girl had been delighted with the unusual laxity in their routine—especially when she’d been indulged with a three-hour play-clay session yesterday afternoon. Tracy had sat across the table from her, punching a glob of tangerine-colored clay into unrecognizable shapes. Muttering under her breath. Getting up countless times to replay a Beauty and the Beast sound track on the stereo.
Several times this weekend, Tracy had picked up the phone to call her sister in San Diego. She wondered if Karen knew about Riley’s return. Though she’d married her fourth husband several years ago, Karen might still be in touch with Riley. It seemed to Tracy that her sister had never gotten over him. Either that, or she had horrendous taste in men.
“Here you go, ma’am.” The photographer thrust a box against Tracy’s midsection. Gripping it under one arm, Tracy was all the way to the door before she remembered to say thanks and instruct the photographer to send the bill to Vanderveer’s.
Then to summon her daughter.
After she’d put the box in the trunk and Hannah in her child seat, Tracy got in and started the car. Ten minutes later, she realized that she’d driven past the turn for the day-care center and was heading toward the office. She turned at the next corner.
While she circled around the day-care center parking lot, she glanced toward the seat beside her and suddenly realized she’d forgotten to bring Hannah’s little backpack.
Tracy sighed as she pictured it next to the front door of the duplex, with Hannah’s lunch card on top. Exactly where Tracy had put them so she wouldn’t forget. Most of the time, she didn’t. Now she’d have to swing by home and the day care on her lunch break, and the dry cleaning would have to be put off another day.
“I forgot your backpack, Hannah-bean,” Tracy said as she parked. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring it before lunch.”
After she’d dropped Hannah off with a hug and a kiss, Tracy returned to her car and tried to shift her mind to her morning’s work. Since she hadn’t started typing the reports she’d taken home this weekend, she knew she had a tall stack awaiting her. She also had folders to file and phone messages to transcribe, and she wanted to free herself of mundane chores as soon as possible.
Booker had promised to let her sit in on a couple of consultations if she did.
When she passed the Mercedes parked in the first spot in front of Vanderveer’s, Tracy made an immediate turn to claim her regular place next to it—and nearly rammed into the motorcycle parked there.
She slammed on her brakes and flinched, waiting for the impact. She was lucky—she’d missed by inches. Her heart pounding, she threw her car into reverse and backed up, slamming on her brakes when she heard a screech and a honk, and glanced in her rearview mirror.
Now she’d nearly been hit from behind. An angry-looking driver jerked his car around hers, and Tracy tried not to lip-read the names he was calling her. She was ready to retrieve Hannah from day care and go home. Today seemed like a good day to camp out on the living-room floor with a game of Candyland, a double batch of fudge and a half dozen of Hannah’s favorite videos. Every parent and child needed quality time together.
After the driver she’d nearly hit had disappeared back into the traffic, Tracy shifted her car into gear and crawled on past her spot. There wasn’t another vacant space for a couple of blocks.
With a deep sigh, Tracy pulled into it. She wouldn’t even attempt to carry the box of forms so far by herself. She’d have to leave them in the trunk until later, and walk to work in her skirt and heels.
She’d told Booker this type of clothing wasn’t practical for a glorified messenger, but he had prevailed. His favorite saying was that in business, image was everything. He’d said a woman’s femininity was often a viable selling point and had advised Tracy to dress for the job she aspired to rather than the one she had.
Since she had hopes of being promoted to full consultant, she was inclined to bow to his wishes.
The whistle she received from a passing driver as she walked down the busy sidewalk only made her madder. By the time she reached the dusty black motorcycle, she wanted to shove it off its big bad tires. Suddenly, hog seemed an appropriate term. She glared at it as she juggled her armful of reports to one hand and whirled around to go inside.
The door to her boss’s private office was open, so she called out, “I’m here. Did you see the hairy beast who stole my spot? I nearly ran over his motorcycle.”
There was a lengthy pause, then Booker’s voice drifted out. “Come in here, Tracy.”
Tracy threw the reports on her desk and kicked her shoes under her desk before she headed back. “I had to park two blocks away,” she said on the way in. “I’d love to grind my foot into that imbecile’s—”
Tracy stopped when she reached Booker’s doorway. This time, she wasn’t noticing something that reminded her of Riley.
She was seeing Riley, himself.
He was sitting in Booker’s plush client’s chair with a helmet balanced on his knees. He grinned that wicked, lopsided grin as he stared at her feet. “Where were you planning to put those sassy red toes?”
Tracy looked down at her feet. The polish was not red, it was pink. Rowdy Rouge, to be precise. She stuck her thumbnail between her teeth and grimaced at the taste of the anti-nail-biting cream she’d rubbed in this morning. Drawing her hand back down, she looked across at Riley, whose smile had spread to both sides.
He looked out of place in Booker’s office. Even in creased dress pants and a collared shirt, he seemed too dangerous to occupy a space so tame.
Her boss cleared his throat. Tracy dragged her gaze to Booker’s most violent frown. He motioned to her feet and mouthed for her to put her shoes on.
She did the only thing she could do.
She walked in three steps farther and sat in the third chair. “It’s okay, I know him,” she said to Booker.
Then she turned her head slightly and looked down her nose at Riley. “Why are you here?”
Riley’s smile revealed an even row of white teeth. Which held her complete attention until a firm grip on her arm wrenched her out of her chair.
“Excuse us, please.” This was from Booker, who hauled her out the door and all the way across the office. He didn’t stop until they were secluded by the coatrack next to the front door. Leaning close, he said, “What are you doing?”
Tracy tossed her head back toward Booker’s office. “He’s bad news.”
Booker backed up a step and looked at her as if she had a row of Rowdy Rouge toenails growing out of the bridge of her nose. “Oh, really?”
“He probably just came here to torment me.”
“Not exactly.” Booker stood up straight and cleared his throat. “He came to hire you.”
She sniffed. “Why would Riley need a consultant?”
Booker paused, and Tracy finally processed his statement. “You don’t mean hire Vanderveer’s?” she whispered.
Booker had crossed to her desk and was squatting to scavenge around on