All A Man Can Ask

Drying her hands on a paper towel, she went to the door. A man’s tall outline blocked the afternoon sun. She squinted through the screen. Her misgiving swelled.

It was him.

Aleksy Denko.

Chapter 2

Aleksy was used to one of two reactions when he knocked on a woman’s door. Either she stalled him while the man of the house bolted down the fire escape. Or, sooner or later, she invited him in for sex. Some women did both.

Faye Harper didn’t look like she would do either one.

She hung back in the shadow of the house, her arms crossed and her body language shouting “go away.” He didn’t hold it against her. Even with Jarek’s phone call smoothing the way, he probably made her nervous.

“It’s okay,” he said with an easy grin. He could do charming. Karen used to say it was his best interview technique, though he liked to think he had a nice line in subtly threatening, too. “I’m not selling anything.”

Faye Harper didn’t smile as he’d hoped and half expected. But she did take a half step closer to the screen. “That’s good. Because I’m not buying. Anything.”

This time his grin was for real. Score one for the cream puff. And she looked cute, with her short blond hair and her small pale face, scowling at him through the screen. Cute wasn’t his type, but he could understand the appeal.

“Well, now that we know where we stand, do you mind if I come in?”

She hesitated. “Will this take long?”

Not if she gave him what he wanted.

“I’ll try not to take up too much of your time,” he promised.

She unlocked the screen—he could have told her that was useless, any punk with a razor would cut through that flimsy barrier in seconds—and stepped aside to admit him. She smelled like spring flowers and line-dried sheets. He sniffed in appreciation.

She sniffed, too. “Can I see your ID?”

He gave her credit for asking and showed her his driver’s license.

She studied it gravely and then asked, “Don’t you have a badge?”

He winced. “A star,” he said. “We call them stars. Security guards have badges.”

The corners of her mouth dented, like she was amused, but she only said, “May I see it?”

He handed her the leather holder that held his detective’s star with its black metallic band and raised white letters. He saw her surprise as its weight registered.

She turned it in her hand. “Why didn’t you show this to the other officer this morning?”

She might be nervous, but she sure wasn’t dumb.

“I didn’t want to blow my cover,” he said. “I’m working a case.”

And if his lieutenant heard that one, he’d bust Aleksy’s butt down to traffic patrol.

Faye tipped her head to one side. “Then why tell me now?”

He tried for a little sincerity. “Because I need your help.”

“No.”

Okay. Screw sincerity. Back to charm. “Maybe help is too strong a word,” he said, leaning forward to take his star and her hand with it. “Cooperation.”

She withdrew her hand, leaving the leather holder behind. “You’ll have to recruit someone else. I’m not cooperating. Well, I’m not pressing charges, but that’s as much as I can do. I can’t afford to get involved. I’m here to rest and recover.”

He looked her over. She looked good to him. “Been sick?”

She had very fine skin. She flushed. “Not really.” But he noticed her left hand moved to cover her right wrist. Interesting.

“I’m on vacation,” she said.

Not cooperating. And not divulging much, either.

“Faye—can I call you Faye?—what do you do?”

She moved her shoulders uncomfortably. “I teach.”

That fit. He could see her in a kindergarten classroom, surrounded by adoring five-year-olds. She wasn’t much more than a kid herself, with her wide brown eyes and her short, messy hair. Under that ridiculous skirt she wore, her narrow feet were bare. Unbelievably he got turned on looking at her feet.

Poor timing.

Remember Karen.

Do the job.

He switched his gaze back to her face. “A teacher, huh? Where do you teach?”

“Lincoln High School.”

Lincoln? He almost whistled. The high school was adjacent to one of the most notorious projects in Chicago. Enrollment was high, graduation rates low, teacher burnout and turnover at epidemic rates. No wonder cream puff needed rest-and-recovery.

“What do you teach?” he asked, not just making conversation anymore.

“Art,” she said flatly.

They must eat her alive.

He wouldn’t mind a nibble himself.

But neither realization changed what he had to do.

Aleksy kept his voice low and his eyes level, inviting her trust. Implying a bond he was pretty sure she’d resist. “Well, then, I don’t need to talk to you about doing your public duty. Teachers, cops, social workers…we’re all on the same team.”

“I’m sorry. It’s been made painfully clear recently that I am not a team player.”

He grinned. “Funny, my lieutenant says the same thing about me.”

But Faye wasn’t laughing.

“Look, I don’t want to bother you,” Aleksy said. “I just need your permission to hang around for a few days.”

“A few days,” she repeated.

“Yeah.” Or a couple of weeks or however long it took to nail Karen’s murderer.

“Why?”

“I’ve got to keep an eye on some things and your place is convenient.”

“What kind of things?”

The hippie skirt and big lost eyes were deceptive. Under that flyaway blond hair, Faye Harper was sharp and stubborn. But when Aleksy was on a case, he was steel. He rubbed his jaw, pretending to consider. “I’m thinking the less I tell you about that, the less likely you are to be involved. You know?”

She frowned at having her own words turned back on her. “You promise I won’t be involved?”

Aleksy smiled, satisfied he had her. “You won’t even know I’m here,” he promised.

He lied, Faye thought three days later as she readied her paper for painting.

She couldn’t glance out her window or take out her trash without spotting Aleksy Denko ambling toward her woods or fishing from her dock. Even when he wasn’t there, the possibility that he might appear hurried her heartbeat and diffused her focus.

She pulled a half sheet from the soaking tray, holding it by one corner to drain the excess water.

It wasn’t that she was looking for him, she assured herself, giving the paper a gentle shake. Well, it wasn’t only that she was looking for him. Tall, dark and in-your-face was tough to miss.

She placed the sheet on the drying board and smoothed it from the center to remove air pockets, taking comfort in the familiar gestures and the flat blank page. Her painting might be lacking these days, but her preparation was faultless.

Clackety clackety clackety clackety clack.

Faye started, nearly tearing a corner of the wet paper. What on earth—?

The racket continued outside her windows, close to the house. Metal on metal, clackety clack. Wiping her hands on her skirt, she edged to the sliding doors and peered out.

Aleksy Denko, stripped to the waist, paraded across her strip of lawn, trundling her aunt’s old push mower in front of him. The rusty blades made a terrible sound.

But it wasn’t terror that dried Faye’s mouth and quickened her pulse. It was the sight of all that gleaming, hot male flesh five yards away outside her window.

Close enough—her breath stuck in her chest—to touch.

He passed her. The lovely long lines of his back disappeared into the damp waistband of his jeans. She could see his buttocks flex. He leaned over the mower, head bent, shoulders taut, putting his back into the job the way he would work a woman.

He reached the end of the row and turned, revealing his sweaty, abstracted face and his deep, powerful chest with its shadow of hair. Not a boy. Not just a man. All man.

My goodness. Teaching high school hadn’t prepared her for this.

His complete unawareness of her was both seductive and infuriating. He was a man mowing the lawn. Her lawn. And both the normalcy and the familiarity of the act pushed all her buttons.

It was intimate.

Unexpected.

Intolerable.

Ignoring the paper drying on the table, Faye rattled open the door and stepped out on the deck. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Aleksy stopped. He looked up, his dark gaze colliding with hers. Something—desire? anticipation? dread?—fluttered in Faye’s stomach.

He dragged his forearm over his sweaty face. “I’m mowing your grass.”

“I can see that. I want to know why.”

His full lips quirked in a smile. “Because it needs cutting?”

He was right. The lawn was disgracefully overgrown. And she’d meant to get around to it. Eventually.

“It’s not your responsibility,” she said, keeping her gaze on his face. Avoiding that hot, powerful chest.

He leaned on the mower handle. “So what? It makes your life easier. It makes my job easier, too.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s good cover. I’m less conspicuous mowing your grass than lurking around your house.”

Her eyes flickered over his bare, broad shoulders, still winter pale, and his deep, muscled chest. He had a line of black hair, startling against his fair skin, that ran down his stomach and disappeared into… She jerked her focus back up.

“Not to me,” she said crossly. “You’re bothering me.”

“Am I?” His tone was amused. Satisfied. Dangerous.

Her face burned. “The noise,” she clarified. “The noise bothers me.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound particularly sorry. “You want me to stop?”

Leaning against the rail above him, Faye caught the mingled scents of cut grass and hot male. She had another funny tummy flutter. “Well…”

“It’s going to look bad if I quit now.”

Faye surveyed the partially mown yard. He was right. “Well, I guess you could finish.”

“Good.” He grinned at her. “I hate to leave anything half-finished.”

Her pulse pounded. That sounded like a warning. Or a dare.

Possibility expanded in her like orange pigment spreading on wet paper. Three months ago, she might have taken up his challenge. Three months ago, she had a naive faith in herself and an inflated sense of her own ability to deal with things.

Faye stepped back from the deck rail, instinctively hugging her right arm against her chest. She couldn’t deal with things anymore. She certainly couldn’t handle whatever this hot, half-naked man was offering.

“I’ll let you get back to it, then,” she said, and reached behind her back to fumble with the sliding door.

His gaze sharpened. His smile faded. “Faye—”

“I have work to do.” She turned tail and bolted like the coward she was.

It wasn’t just cowardice, she told herself. She needed to get that sheet taped down before it dried or her morning’s work would be wasted.

The pretty landscapes on the wall mocked her. Flat water. Empty sky. Her work was wasted anyway.

She pushed the thought away.

She cut the lengths of paper tape —clackety clackety, from the corner of her eye, she could see Aleksy, pushing, sweating—and pressed them to the edges of the drying sheet to stretch it —clackety clack as he passed the cottage again—and pinned the corners with thumb-tacks.

Silence.

Faye straightened. Her back ached. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears. Was he gone?

Pressing a hand to the small of her back, she walked to the doors. The sun beat down on the green, empty strip of grass.

Gone.

She was…relieved. Of course she was relieved. She refused to identify the sinking in her chest as disappointment. She turned back to her empty living room, but with all the quiet and time and space to create in she couldn’t bring herself to pick up a paintbrush. Maybe she would go down to the lake and take photographs?

Yes. She nodded to herself. That would ease this odd restlessness. She stuffed her feet into sandals, grabbed her camera from the narrow table behind the sofa and went out the sliding doors.

Aleksy sluiced water over his arms. Standing waist deep in the cold lake might help cure his sexual frustration, but it didn’t do a thing to relieve his itchy mood. After three days of surveillance, he had exactly nothing on Freer. No unexplained absences, no unknown visitors, no unauthorized stores of munitions in the gun dealer’s boathouse.

Aleksy needed some action. Now.

A break in the case. A roll in the hay. Anything to kill the mind-numbing boredom and make this exile in Pleasantville feel like something besides a colossal waste of his time. Mowing pretty Faye Harper’s lawn didn’t count.

He thought of the tiny blonde’s bare, arched feet, her wide, intrigued eyes and grinned. Now there was a woman who could provide a man with a little diversion.

Yeah, if he was dumb enough to let himself be distracted. Which Aleksy was not. Not yet. Not without some encouragement, anyway.

He dunked his head. And when he raised it dripping from the water, felt that unmistakable tingle at the back of his neck. His life preserver. The cop’s sixth sense. The awareness that someone, somewhere, was watching him.

Hell.

His sweat-soaked jeans were on the rocky bank behind him. His gun was out of reach, under his folded shirt. He’d better hope some vacationing tourist had stumbled on him skinny-dipping or he was in big trouble here.

He ran his hands over his face, like he needed to wipe the water from his eyes. He turned slowly, squinting through his fingers to scan the sloping bank.

The rocks were empty. His clothes were undisturbed. But a flash of pale blue—someone’s shirt, he guessed—drew his attention up the bank. There in the bushes, a camera in her hands and pure confusion on her face, stood little Faye Harper.

Aleksy grinned. The day was looking up.

He lowered his hands. “Like what you see?”

Her fair skin made her an easy mark. She blushed bright red. “I didn’t know you were here.”

He believed her. But he couldn’t resist teasing her. He shrugged. “Whatever.”

“I didn’t!”

He smiled.

She lifted her chin and some of the cream puff air fell away. “I don’t think this arrangement is working. Frankly, Mr. Denko, you’re intruding on my privacy.”

He felt a moment’s regret. But she couldn’t get rid of him that easily. Not until he had proof one way or the other of Freer’s complicity in Karen’s death. “I’d go easy with the accusations, sweetheart. At least I’m not taking your picture in the buff.”

“I was not taking your picture.”

He gestured. “So, what’s with the camera?”

She looked down at the camera in her hands as if she’d never seen one before. He stifled another grin.

“Oh. I’m taking backup shots of landscapes.” Her voice gained confidence as she spoke. “To prompt my memory when I’m in the studio.”

That was actually kind of interesting. Which just went to prove he’d been standing in the water too long.

“Yeah, well, you better turn your back,” he said. “Or I’m going to give you something else to remember.”

Her face set in cool, disapproving lines. He could almost see how Miss Pixie might have kept order in a classroom.

“That won’t be necessary. I’m going into town now.”

“Running away?”

“Running errands.”

“That could be good,” he decided. After five days of bug bites and boredom, he was ready for a new angle. Karen’s lead only took him as far as the town. Maybe all this time, he’d been barking up the wrong tree. Staking out the wrong dock. “I’ll come with you.”

“No.”

“It would be good cover,” he said.

“I don’t want you to come.”

So she was running away. Aleksy tried to find that encouraging. Maybe he got to her the way she, improbably, got to him.

He observed her stiff face and the way she held her right arm braced across her chest. Or maybe she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

“Just into town,” he said. “You can let me out at—what is it?—Harbor Street.”

Faye shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ve let you stay, but I won’t be involved in—in whatever it is you’re doing. You’ll have to drive yourself to town.”

The unnaturally red-haired woman behind the counter at Weiglund’s Camera—Greta, her name tag read—beamed at Faye as she popped her film into an envelope.

“You sure do take a lot of pictures for a single gal. Have you heard from your aunt Eileen yet?”

Faye blinked at the woman’s intrusive interest. Friendly interest, she told herself. It couldn’t hurt her. No one in Eden thought she’d done anything wrong. “I had a postcard from Galway. She thinks she’s found the parish where her grandmother was born.”

“Isn’t that exciting,” Greta Weiglund said, sealing the envelope and tossing it into a box behind her. “And do you like it at the cottage?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Not your first visit?”

“I— No. I used to come when I was a little girl.”

“I thought I remembered that,” Greta said with satisfaction. “Of course, you stayed with your auntie, then. Don’t you find it lonely now?”

Dear heaven. “No. Are my other pictures ready?”

“Let me just check. I heard the police were out there the other day. A trespasser, was it?”

Faye fumbled with her wallet. Living in Chicago, she’d grown used to fending off muggers, purse snatchers and panhandlers. But she was defenseless against Eden’s small town grapevine. “It wasn’t anything. A—a misunderstanding.”

Greta twinkled knowingly. “A young man, I heard. Are you seeing each other?”

Faye had a mental flash of Aleksy half-naked in the lake, the damp hair curling on his chest, his dusky nipples puckered with cold. Seeing each other?

“I— That is—”

I didn’t want to blow my cover, he’d told her. I’m working a case.

Faye bit her lip. “I guess you could say we see each other occasionally.”

Greta Weiglund nodded encouragement. “Isn’t that nice?”

It was awful.

Faye did not want to get involved. On her way back to the car, past the Rose Farms Café and Tompkins Hardware, she rehearsed to herself all the other things she could have said to deflect gossip.

I’m not sure who you’re talking about.

We’re just friends.

That’s Raoul. He does the yard work.

“Faye!”

A man’s voice. Calling her name. She froze. But it was only Richard Freer smiling at her from the gleaming glass entrance of his sporting goods store, as well-groomed and ruggedly handsome as a race car driver hawking motor oil.

Eileen Harper didn’t like him. “Cuckoos,” she called him and the other wealthy residents who bought up land across the lake to build newer, grander houses. But he was the closest thing to a neighbor Faye had. They seldom spoke, but he always waved when he saw her.

He strolled forward onto the sidewalk. “I know Eden’s not the big city, but I didn’t know you were so hard up for entertainment here that you’d started talking to yourself.”

She forced a smile. “Hi, Richard. Sorry. I was distracted.”

“I could see that.” He looked her over with the confident air of a man used to paying for—and getting—what he wanted. Faye caught herself stiffening and ordered her muscles to relax. He didn’t mean anything by it. And she’d given up taking stands over things she couldn’t control.

“I haven’t seen you on the lake,” he said. “What are you doing with yourself?”

She wondered if she should try out her yard boy explanation on him. No. “Nothing much.”

His gaze focused on the bag she carried. “Still taking pictures?”

They were neighbors, of sorts. He’d seen her out with her camera, and she’d explained about her painting.

“A few.”

“Heard you had some trouble at your place the other day.” He shifted closer and lowered his voice. “You know, a woman alone should always have protection at hand.”

He couldn’t mean… Condoms?

“No, ma’am, you don’t want to be caught unprepared if a situation arises suddenly where you need it.”

Faye goggled.

“A gun,” Richard said firmly. “A nice, light ladies’ handgun, that’s what you need.”

“Oh.” Faye’s breath escaped on a shaky laugh. “I don’t think—”

“You’ve got to take care of yourself. A couple of vagrants have been spotted at the lake. I’ve seen one myself, hanging around your aunt’s cottage.”

Her relief died. “Well, actually—”

“Hi, sweetheart.” Aleksy’s warm, rough voice broke into her explanation. His warm, heavy arm wrapped around her shoulders. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

And before she could get her mind or her tongue working, before she could react or protest or prepare, he bent his dark head and kissed her full on the mouth.

Chapter 3

He tasted like coffee.

He needed a shave.

And he had absolutely no business putting his tongue anywhere near her lips.

Faye registered all this in the brief, confused moments when Aleksy’s hard arm squeezed her shoulders and his mouth crushed hers. Wild heat bloomed in her chest and in her face. Indignation, she told herself. Had to be.

And then Aleksy released her and turned his careless, all-guys-together grin on Richard Freer.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” he said. “I’m Alex.”

“Dick Freer.”

They shook in a ritual less complicated but no less appraising than the high fives and hand signals of Lincoln High’s homeboys.

“Are you in town long?” Richard asked.

“As long as Faye will have me,” Aleksy said. And don’t you forget it, she thought, her lips still tingling from his kiss. “You?”

“I’m lucky enough to live here.” Richard straightened proudly against the plate-glass entrance. “This is my shop.”

“Guess you don’t get to travel a lot, then.”

Richard pulled in his jaw, creating an important-looking double chin. “Oh, I get around. Trade shows. Gun shows.”

Aleksy nodded. “Ever get down to Chicago?”

“Not often. Most of my business is selling shotguns and rifles to local sportsmen. And self-defense, of course.”

“What kind of self-defense are we talking about?”

“Whatever makes a man feel free and his family safe. Are you interested in guns, Alex?”

Faye wriggled out from under Aleksy’s arm. He was too close. This was too weird. And she wasn’t crazy about Dick Freer’s aggressive salesmanship, either.

Aleksy let her slide from under his elbow and then caught her fingers in his. “I could be,” he said.

Richard’s smile broadened. “Are you a gun owner?”

“Well, no. Not yet.”

Faye frowned. He was lying. Why was he lying? “We really need to go now.” Aleksy gave her a sharp look. She bit her lip. “Dear.”

He shrugged. “Okay, babe. Nice talking with you,” he said to Richard Freer.

“Come back and see me,” the dealer invited.

“Count on it,” Aleksy said.

Faye breathed a sigh of relief as they started down the sidewalk toward the tiny municipal parking lot. She caught a glimpse of their reflections in the window of the Silver Thimble—short, blond and flustered, barely keeping pace with tall, dark and annoyed—and was amazed that she’d stood up to him. But everything was all right now. In another minute she’d be in her car and going home. Alone.

“Do you mind telling me what the hell you were running away from back there?”

Indignation rendered her almost speechless. Almost. “Excuse me?”

“I wanted to talk with that guy.”

She dug in her canvas bag for her keys. “Why?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Exactly.” Her keys jangled in the bottom of the bag. “I don’t want to know. I can’t afford to get mixed up in whatever it is you’re doing.” Her hand closed on her keys but Aleksy was in her way, leaning against her door, arms folded indolently over his chest in this sort of macho slouch. Her pulse speeded up.

“I don’t want you kissing me, either,” she said.