How to Score Page 5

  Chase didn’t want to be caught staring. In normal jogger etiquette, Chase nodded an impersonal greeting and moved to the right side of the trail to let her pass.

  She moved to the far side, as well, but the dog continued to chug straight down the middle of the trail, his nose twitching, his cropped ears tilted forward.

  “Heel, Joe!” she ordered.

  The dog did nothing of the kind. As their paths intersected, the beast locked his eyes on Chase, flattened his ears, and lunged toward him, yanking the leash out of the woman’s hand.

  “Heel!” she shouted.

  The dog ignored her and surged toward Chase, his red leash flapping behind him. Chase put out his hands to fend him off, only to have the beast circle around and lock his jaws on the back of his jogging shorts.

  “Hey!” The elastic waistband bit into Chase’s stomach as the giant dog pulled down his shorts. Chase stopped and pivoted, trying to swat away the beast, but the animal refused to relinquish his mouthful of fabric. The dog held on as Chase lurched off the path and onto the grass, his shorts around his knees.

  “Joe—stop it!” The woman ran forward, only to slip on the dew-soaked grass. Chase reached out to break her fall, but his shorts were now around his ankles, and he couldn’t keep his balance. Down she went, pulling him with her. Chase’s hands hit the ground as his body sprawled on top of her.

  Chase gasped, not so much from the impact as from the flood of sensations washing over him—cool, wet grass on his hands and knees, warm, hard-breathing woman beneath his torso.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Big hazel eyes stared up into his at disconcertingly close range. “Yeah.” Her voice was soft and breathy. “You?”

  “Yeah.” Chase gazed down at her. She had a small nose, delicate eyebrows, and long eyelashes. Her breath smelled like toothpaste, and her hair smelled like fruit and flowers. Chase was pretty sure he hadn’t hit his head, but gazing into her face, he felt distinctly dazed. His gaze shifted to her lips. Man, they were something—full and ripe and pillowy. So was the feel of her body beneath his.

  “Okay, you two, break it up,” ordered a gruff male voice.

  Chase’s gaze jerked upward. His first view was the underside of a navy-blue beer belly. The belly shifted, exposing a wide black belt holding a holstered service revolver.

  Oh, great. A cop.

  “Hell of a place to get romantic.” The officer’s weathered face frowned down over his massive belly. “You two drunk or somethin’?”

  It took an effort, but Sammi pulled her eyes from the handsome face on top of her to the scowling mug of an overweight policeman hovering above them both. Her gaze immediately went to his holstered gun. The sight made her stomach tighten. Dear Lord, but she hated guns. “No,” she managed. “I don’t even know this man.”

  The cop’s eyes narrowed. “He’s attacking you?”

  I wish. Her gaze went back to the man. He had a strong face, good-looking but not pretty, with high cheekbones, a broad jaw, and an angular chin. It was covered with a night’s worth of dark stubble, as if he’d missed his morning shave. His nose wasn’t straight, exactly—it looked like it might have been broken a time or two—but that somehow only added to his appeal.

  “All right, you,” the officer barked, resting his hand on his gun. “Get your hands where I can see them.”

  Belatedly, Sammi realized she hadn’t answered the cop’s question. “Oh, he’s not attacking me. He tripped when my boxer got loose.”

  The crease between the cop’s thick gray eyebrows deepened. “Looks like your pal here’s the one with the loose boxers.” He relinquished the handle of his pistol, pulled out his nightstick, and tapped the man’s leg. “Pull up your pants, there, lover boy.”

  Chase rolled off Sammi and tugged up his shorts. “It’s not what it looks like, Officer.”

  “It better not be, ’cause from where I’m standing, it looks like lewd and lascivious behavior, indecent exposure, and probably public intoxication.”

  “We’re not drunk. And we don’t even know each other.” Sammi scrambled to her feet. “My dog got loose and grabbed this man’s shorts, and we fell.”

  The policeman’s squinty eyes darted from her face to the man’s, then back again. “I don’t see a dog.”

  Oh, no—where was Joe? She turned and frantically looked up and down the street.

  The hunk touched her shoulder. “Over there.” He pointed to a cluster of oaks near the river. Joe lay in the leaves under them, gnawing on something between his front paws.

  Thank goodness! She’d never forgive herself if something happened to Yvette’s dog the first month she had him. “Joe!” she called, starting toward him.

  The cop stepped in front, body-blocking her. “Not so fast. Let’s see some ID.”

  This guy was a real jerk. Probably because he had a gun, Sammi thought; something about packing heat turned even mild-mannered men into paranoid bullies. “I don’t have any on me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t usually jog with my purse.”

  Beside her, the hunk chuckled. The cop’s eyes narrowed with displeasure. “What’s your name and address?” he demanded.

  “Samantha Matthews, 2100 Pendercross.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Curator at the Phelps Museum. Why?”

  “Because I just found you lying on the ground under a pantless man, and I’m trying to decide if you’re a prostitute, a drunk, or a crazy.” He turned to the man. “What about you?”

  “Chase Jones, 2100 Court Place. And I’m none of the above, either.”

  The first bubble of a laugh made it out before Sammi could stifle it. The officer’s face hardened. “I’ll be the judge of that. Your occupation?”

  “Special agent, FBI.”

  Oh, great—just her luck. The hunk was a gun toter himself.

  But the policeman didn’t seem to believe it. He squinted at Chase suspiciously. “They training you guys to drop trou in public these days?”

  “No.” Chase’s tone was unamused, his lips tight. “Like the lady said, we fell.”

  “Humph.” He clearly didn’t believe them. “You got ID?”

  “Yeah.” Chase reached for his right hip. His hand froze, and his mouth flattened. “It’s, uh, not there. I think the dog has it.”

  “Uh-huh,” the cop said dryly. “I bet he ate your homework, too.”

  “Seriously. My whole pocket is gone.” Chase turned around. Loose threads dangled from the seat of his shorts, and white cotton peeked out of a long rip.

  Chagrin pulsed through Sammi. “I’m so sorry. Joe has a thing for tanned leather.”

  The creases between the cop’s bushy brows furrowed. “You ever hear of leash laws, lady?”

  “He’s on a leash. He just got away. Can I go get him now?”

  “Yeah. But come right back. And you… ” He turned and pointed his nightstick at Chase. “You stay right here.”

  Sammi hurried toward the dog, slowing and holding out her hand as she drew near. “Here, Joe,” she called.

  The boxer picked up the wallet in his teeth and trotted off, only to plop down a few yards away and resume chewing.

  “Come on, boy. Come here.”

  As she approached, the dog moved again.

  Sammi decided to switch tactics. “Stay, Joe,” she ordered, walking slowly toward him.

  The dog stood, loped toward the river, then plunked down on the grass.

  “Christ. We could be here all day,” the cop grumbled.

  Sammi opted for a different method. “Hey, Joe—want to play footsie?”

  The dog stopped chewing and cocked his head to one side, the wallet hanging out of his mouth.

  “Footsie, Joe?” She inched closer.

  “Just how weird are you people?” the cop muttered.

  She was now less than a yard away. The dog glanced at her sneaker-clad feet and decided to pass. As he rose to all fours, Sammi long-jumped onto his l
eash, trapping it beneath her white Nike. “Gotcha!” She bent and picked up the leash, then held her hand below the beast’s mouth. “Give it to me,” she ordered. The dog sheepishly dropped the wallet into her palm.

  “Good boy.” Sammi petted his head.

  Joe wagged his tail, then trotted beside her as she jogged back to Chase and the policeman. She held out the wallet to Chase with an apologetic smile. “It’s a little worse for wear.”

  She followed his dismayed glance down to the mangled wallet. It was now a slimy brown wad, pitted with teethmarks, covered with slobber, and missing a corner.

  Sammi winced as he took it. “Okay, that’s a bit of an understatement.”

  Chase gingerly pried it open. Half of a ten-dollar bill was missing and the wallet’s fold was nearly torn in two, but from what Sammi could see, his credit cards and ID seemed intact.

  She bit her lip. “I’m really sorry.”

  A muscle flexed in the man’s jaw. He pulled out his driver’s license and FBI ID and handed them to the police officer.

  The cop looked at the cards, looked at Chase, then looked at the cards again. “Special Agent Jones, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  The cop ran a hand across his mouth and sheepishly dropped his gaze. “I’m, uh, sorry. It didn’t, uh, seem like a likely story.” He handed the cards back to Chase and cleared his throat. “Okay, then. Everything seems to be in order here.” He harrumphed again, then turned a stern look at Sammi. “Better keep that dog of yours under control.”

  And you better do the same with your paranoia. Sammi nodded.

  The cop curtly dipped his head. “Okay, then. You two have a nice day.” With that, he turned and plodded away.

  Chase gingerly fit his cards back into the chewed-up wallet.

  Sammi shifted the leash into her other hand. “I’m so sorry about your wallet. Why don’t you give me your address, and I’ll mail you a check to cover the cost?”

  “Nah. I needed to get a new one anyway.”

  She was pretty sure he was lying. The fact he was being so nice about it deepened her sense of guilt. “Well, at least let me buy you a cup of coffee. There’s a place about half a block up the trail.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary. Besides, you have the dog.”

  “They have outdoor seating, so Joe won’t be a problem.”

  He hesitated.

  “Please. It’ll make me feel really bad if you don’t let me do something.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled as his smiled. “Okay. But I’ll buy since you don’t have your wallet.”

  Her wallet. It was back at her place. Her face heated. “Well, then, why don’t you come back to my house and I’ll put on a pot?” she blurted, then wondered if the offer seemed weird. “Not that I’m in the habit of inviting strange men home.” Okay, that definitely sounded weird. “But since you’re FBI, I figure you’re not going to attack me or anything.”

  Although part of her kind of wished he would. Good grief, but he was gorgeous. He had George Clooney’s eyes, Brad Pitt’s jawline, and, from what she’d glimpsed of his belly, Matthew McConaughey’s abs.

  “Of course, you’re probably in a hurry. I’m sure you have to get to work, and you probably have a wife or girlfriend expecting you at home.” She realized she was babbling—she always babbled when she got nervous—but she couldn’t seem to stop. “I’m not married or anything myself, so… ” Oh, dear Lord. She was just making this more awkward than it already was.

  His grinned. “No one’s waiting for me.”

  “Oh.” His smile made it hard to think.

  “And I don’t have to be at work for a couple of hours. A cup of coffee sounds great.”

  She swallowed, suddenly nervous, and wondered what on earth had possessed her to issue the invitation. “Well… good. It’s about a mile and a half away. Feel like jogging some more?”

  As he followed Sammi and her dog onto a tree-shaded street fifteen minutes later, Chase was breathing hard—as much from watching Sammi as from the run. His initial theory that she was out of shape had been off base—way off base. The sight of her long legs, pert backside, and slender waist would have made him break a sweat even if he’d been sitting still.

  She slowed in front of a small white stucco house. “Here it is.”

  “Cool place,” Chase said, and meant it. The tiny, flat-roofed house had a curved corner built from square glass blocks, giving it a George Jetson kind of look.

  He followed her and the dog up the stoop to the front door. She reached inside her T-shirt and fished a key off a chain around her neck. “It was designed by a famous art deco architect,” she said, unlocking it. “He only built a few modest-sized homes, and this is the only one still standing.”

  And I shouldn’t be here seeing it, Chase thought, but he’d been unable to resist the invitation. After all, the inside of a home gave real clues to the person who lived there.

  She opened the door. “Come on in.”

  It was like stepping into a tiny time warp. A green-and-black tile fireplace with a gilt starburst mirror over the mantel dominated one wall. A kidney-shaped coffee table stood between a fan-backed green sofa and two low-slung black chairs with green and black geometric-patterned throw pillows. “Wow. This looks like the set of an old Bogey and Bacall movie.”

  She smiled broadly and flipped a light switch, lighting up an overhead fixture that looked like two swans holding a bowl. “Thanks. That’s kind of the effect I was going for.”

  “You’re an old movie buff?”

  “I’m an art deco buff, but lots of movies from the thirties and forties featured the style.”

  He needed to play this as if he didn’t know anything about her, other than what she’d told the police officer. “Oh, that’s right. You work at the art deco museum.” He looked around. “So this is art deco. I never really knew what it was.”

  “It has a lot of different interpretations, but it was basically the modern of its day.”

  “When was that?”

  “Generally speaking, between the world wars. Tulsa has a ton of it because it was popular when most of the city was built.”

  “This place is in great condition for a house that old.”

  “Thanks. I’ve done a lot of work on the place. I’ve replastered, painted, retiled the fireplace, refinished the floors, and installed vintage light fixtures.”

  That was an awful lot of work and money to put into a rental. Only he wasn’t supposed to know she was just renting. He wondered if she’d lie about it. “How long have you had this place?” He followed her into the kitchen, trying to keep his thoughts focused on the conversation and off her long legs.

  “A little over six months, but I don’t own it.” The thought seemed to deflate her. “I’m trying to buy it, but it needs a lot of repairs, and I can’t get a mortgage until they’re fixed. Unfortunately, my landlord won’t shell out the money to do them. And he informed me last night that he plans to sell it as-is, which most likely means he’ll sell it to someone who wants to tear it down.”

  Chase leaned a hip against her turquoise-and-black tile counter. “He has to keep the place in good repair as long as you have a lease.”

  “That’s another problem. I don’t have one.” She picked up the coffeepot and carried it to the tiny sink. “It ran out, and now I’m just a month-to-month tenant.”

  Not a very logical situation to be in—especially considering all she’d spent on the place. But from what he’d learned as her life coach, she wasn’t a very practical person.

  She turned on the faucet and filled the pot with water, then poured it into her Mr. Coffee. “I’m hoping that when the executive curator at the museum retires and I officially replace her, my salary will increase enough for me to qualify for a larger loan. Maybe then the bank will let me buy the place as-is.”

  “When’s she going to retire?”

  “Who knows? It was supposed to have happened months ago, but she changed her
mind. I was hired as interim head curator with the understanding that my salary would go up when she stepped down, but I’m still waiting.”

  “So you’re stuck as her understudy for as long as she wants?”

  “Pretty much.” Sammi opened an ancient turquoise refrigerator and pulled out a can of Cain’s coffee. “She worked for Phelps Oil before the museum was even created, and all Phelps employees hired before 1970 have a guaranteed job for as long as they want one.”

  “Maybe she could be transferred to a different position.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to push her out.” She pried the yellow lid off the red can. The rich scent of coffee filled the air. “Her job has been her whole life, and I want her to leave on her own terms.”

  Sammi was too nice for her own good, lacking in drive, or missing the self-preservation instinct—and none of these possibilities boded well for her career prospects. “What if she decides to stay for several more years?”

  “I refuse to think along those lines.” She filled the coffee filter. “The head curator position is my dream job, and I have faith it will all work out when it’s meant to.”

  Things worked out for people who made them work out, not for people who sat back and hoped for the best. In addition to being illogical, impractical, and irrational, Sammi was a Pollyanna. No wonder her life was a mess.

  She punched the “on” button on the coffeepot and turned toward him. When her eyes met his, he felt as if she’d found his on button, as well. Since when did impractical Pollyannas have so much appeal?

  The dog tipped up his snout and snuffled the countertop. Chase patted his enormous head.

  “What about you?” Sammi asked. “Is the FBI your dream job?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly describe it as dreamy, but yeah, it’s all I ever wanted to do.”

  She leaned a shapely hip against the counter. “What, exactly, does a special agent do?”